


eidolons

by autumnstwilight (sewohayami)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Depression, Dream Sequences, Fate & Destiny, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Lives, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22318837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewohayami/pseuds/autumnstwilight
Summary: Stargazing by a secluded lake, Ignis meets a young man fishing just before sunrise. Charmed and fascinated by his new acquaintance, he cautiously embarks on a new relationship, but his dreams speak of something dark lurking below the surface, of a tragedy gone unremembered.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 27
Kudos: 78
Collections: The Ignoct Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At first I wondered if this idea would carried me through the 10K words required for the Big Bang, then I wondered if it would ever be finished aaaargh. Like Icarus, I have flown too close to the sun. But it is done.
> 
> Art for this fic was provided by novembercomes. Here is the link to their piece (<https://twitter.com/november_comes/status/1218948932274778112>). It can also be viewed in Chapter 7.  
> Twitter: [twitter.com/november_comes](https://twitter.com/november_comes)  
> Tumblr: [novembercomes.tumblr.com](https://novembercomes.tumblr.com)
> 
> Beta reading was provided by [whythekwehnot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whythekwehnot/)!

Within the dream, he stands beneath a starless sky, in a featureless midnight plane. His ears and nose are numbed by the cold, the ground obscured by a thin layer of water that drags at his feet.

_ It’s about to start. _

The voice comes from a boy, just below his own eye level. He must not be much older himself.

_ Come on. _ The boy takes his hand, leading him further from the places that he knows. One by one, the stars blink into view, crystalline shards studded in dark velvet, flickering like captive embers. The great sweep of the galaxy rests above, a spattered brushstroke across the sky. Constellations appear dot by dot, gods and legends engraved into the firmament. On the horizon sits the Messenger Star, a bright compass point. His companion squeezes his hand, not knowing their names or histories, but delighted all the same.

And the stars begin to fall. A magnificent sight, streaks of silver raining down, like someone has torn through the fabric to the light beyond. Light that flickers on the face of the boy, catching the blue of his eyes. His expression turns from joy to hesitance, then fear. No longer distant, the stars pour down, piercing into the earth and sending tremors up through their feet and legs, with the roar of an inferno, the rumble of an avalanche.

He seizes the boy’s hand, and runs back the way they came. His toes push into the silt, water splashes up around his legs. His chest aches, his breath burns. He steals a look back toward the hand clasped in his own, the stumbling figure behind him.

A molten glow surrounds the ragged edges of the hole in the boy’s chest. The same glow is shimmering on his fingertips, illuminating the confusion on his stricken face. Stars crash down around them, plumes of flame erupt from the earth. Every direction is chaos. He pulls the boy to the ground, scrabbling on hands and knees, and curls around him, trying to shelter him with his own body. 

But his hands find only shadow and smoke. A cry bursts from his throat as he tries to seize hold of something already gone, searching the shallows for the body of his friend, numb to the drip of fire upon his own back, the rain of red-hot stone. For a desperate moment he feels the trace of something at his fingertips, but before he can seize it, the roaring grows until it shakes every atom in his body. He contorts, craning his neck to search the sky, within the final moment of panic before light and pain consume his vision.

* * *

The ceiling above is a sight that he is not yet used to seeing. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Ignis rolls over, groping with one hand on the bedside table for his glasses. He sighs as he rises to his feet, padding toward the kitchen.

A shaft of sunlight enters through the small window, augmented with the flick of a light switch and the buzz of a fluorescent tube. Drops of condensation quickly form on the can of coffee retrieved from the refrigerator, rolling down the side to form a ring on the counter. A hiss sounds from the can as he cracks it open, the taste of the chill, bitter liquid waking his senses. The egg in the frying pan sizzles and pops, and the scent of cooking mingles with the flavor on his tongue. It takes longer than usual to retrieve a plate, though his possessions have all found their places in the cupboards, it will be a while before this place truly feels like home and not a temporary accommodation. Perhaps that’s why his sleep has been so restless of late.

Still, it’s a step up from his previous residence. He has a proper kitchen now, cramped as it may be, a stovetop with multiple burners. A living room and a bedroom — it’s no longer necessary to fold his futon up and put it away each morning. Gloriously and blessedly, the apartment has both a full-sized bath and a shower, and the toilet is separate, not crammed into the shower room. It even has a washing machine. Bliss.

The toaster ejects its slices, and he spreads them with butter before placing a fried egg on each and carrying his plate to the table. Sunlight tracks across the room as he finishes his breakfast, mopping up the last traces of egg yolk with the crust, then draining the last drops of coffee from the can. Time to head out.

The new job is nothing thrilling, but it is steady work. Finally, a chance to put his degree to good use. As a junior advisor, his suggestions are as likely to be discarded as they are to be taken, but the autonomy gives him some measure of satisfaction. He formulates ideas, researches them, presents them, and hopes to get the credit when they were implemented. That seed of pride helps him to get through the days of shuffling papers around a desk. Comfortable, respectable, well-paid. He can hardly complain about a little boredom.

At mid-morning he makes his way to the coffee machine to refill his mug. Upon returning, he sets it on the desk, and sits back in his chair to savor it for a moment. The desk is his own space, as much as he can make it so without breaking any office rules about tidiness or presentability. A row of sticky notes in various colors hang like flags off the edges of his computer screen – he peels away the top one to discard it, the matter has finally been settled. On the wall next to it hangs a star chart, a laminated cardboard contraption with rotating circles to adjust for various times of year. He reaches forward and nudges it with his fingertips on the edge of the cardboard disk, the Glacian’s Belt is setting around this time, and the Draconian’s Blade will soon appear just above the horizon each night. His birthday has passed, and the Infernian’s Cauldron since peaked, but it will be visible for a few more months. The season is ripe for stargazing, the weather warm enough that he won’t freeze under the night sky, and the humidity not yet enough to cause clouds that would block the view. He should make a trip of it soon.

But for now, there are emails to write and papers to be shuffled. The document on his screen is a half-written proposal for optimizing a certain process, one of those things the existing employees have come to live with that sticks out like a sore thumb to a new hire. Even so, he must be diplomatic in his wording, he knows better than to simply tell people that they are wrong. He’d like to keep this job, and it won’t do to make enemies early on. He pecks out a few more words on the keyboard, pausing to think.

A page of documentation later, he again loses the battle with distraction, musing over the mince that he left in the fridge to thaw. His meal plan for the week lists bolognese, but now that the day has arrived, a meat pie sounds much more appealing. He chews on his lip absently, his future self who has just arrived home after a long day at work is unlikely to be in the mood to make a pie crust. Better to check out the supermarket on the corner for a pre-made crust, he’s been intending to look around there anyway. Yes, if he can get dinner out of the way, then he’ll be able to go stargazing that night. After all, it is the end of the week. He’ll have Saturday and Sunday to recover from the sleepless night.

He considers his options. Galdin was pleasant enough last time, but accommodations are expensive, and the lights intrusive. Caem is cheaper, but even farther. Alstor, perhaps? He could drive there and back in one night, eliminate the need to stay. He rolls a pen between his fingers. There are many unknown variables, he’s never visited the area before. Still, it couldn’t hurt to give it a try.

One of the managers approaches his workspace, and he quickly straightens his back and tries to look like he’s been working. She turns and keeps going. When he looks back at the screen two new emails have arrived, one concerning the matter that he had thought was settled. Ignis sighs.

Leaning back with coffee mug in hand, he surreptitiously glances at the clock. Only a few hours left. He can do this. Taking another sip of coffee for energy, he returns to his emails.

* * *

That evening, he sets up his telescope on the Alstor Slough, hoping for the few stray clouds to clear once the night is underway. And for the most part, they comply, offering him an unparalleled view of the night sky, the dusky smudge of the galaxy pinpointed with stars. He finds them one by one, tracing each constellation. An evening well-spent, he could hardly have asked for better. And yet, a trace of dissatisfaction lurks ever at the back of his mind, a lingering want for something he knows can’t be found in the skies above.

He slowly packs his things away, hesitant to leave, but aware that he has seen what he came to see and staying further will only make him tired.  _ Tireder. _ The rim of the horizon is already beginning to lighten by the time he packs his things and carries them back down the slope, and so he’s surprised to see a figure silhouetted against the silver of the lake. The figure stands on a short pier, clad in a puffy jacket, and he can just make out a fishing rod in their hands. Looking for a pre-dawn catch, no doubt. He wonders if they’ve been there the whole night, or if they happen to be a particularly early riser.

There’s a grunt of effort as he passes the pier, the whirring sound of a fishing reel. Perhaps it’s impolite, but he stops to observe. The end of the rod bounces and jumps, evidence of something substantial fighting, and he hears mutterings of  _ “Easy now… come on…” _ as the fisherman matches his movements to the creature on the hook. Too aggressive, and the line will break. Ignis knows that much at least.

The first rays of the sun are cresting the horizon by the time the fisherman reels in his catch, scales and water droplets catching the light. The fish is a good foot and a half in length and still flapping in defiance. Ignis gives a round of polite applause, and the fisherman turns to look at him, grinning proudly.

“Didn’t realize I had an audience.”

“Forgive me.”

“Nah, it’s cool. At least you saw me get one.”

“May I take a closer look?”

He makes his way down the pier and inspects the fish. Its gills are still moving slightly, but it has clearly lost the fight, and he feels, for a moment, rather sorry for it. But such is nature – the cleanly packed fish he buys from the supermarket have hardly met a kinder end.

“This is… a crag barramundi… is it not?”

“Got it in one. You fish?”

“No. But I do happen to know an excellent recipe.”

“Ah, a chef then. You wanna tell me this recipeh?” The man mimics Ignis’ pronunciation with a cheeky grin.

Ignis takes a breath, then speaks with a forwardness uncharacteristic of him.

“The ingredients are simple, but as such the timing for optimal results can be rather tricky. Perhaps I should demonstrate.”

“Oh?” The fisherman cocks his head and lowers his voice, “My place or yours?”

He lets out a chuckle when Ignis can do nothing but splutter in response.

“Well, I… That depends upon if you have a well stocked kitchen at your residence?”

“Nah. Not unless you consider half a bottle of ketchup ‘well stocked’.”

“I assure you, I do not,” counters Ignis with feigned horror. “Goodness, how do you live?”

“Mostly on fast food,” the man admits, wincing at Ignis’ expression. “Damn, your mother teach you that look?”

“Well, yours apparently never taught you to cook,” he mutters, and regrets it instantly when the air around them went cold.

“Yeah… about that. She died. A long time ago.” The fisherman suddenly appears very interested in his fish, nudging the fins aside to inspect the body.

“Oh, gods, I’m so sorry. What a stupid thing for me to say.” Ignis nearly trips over his words in his haste to deliver them.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” The man wipes his forehead with the back of his arm and gives a quiet smile, as if to indicate all is well.

“Still… assuming I haven’t offended you to the point at which you no longer wish to speak to me… allow me to make breakfast as an apology.”

“I could go for an apology breakfast.” He packs his fish into a cooler filled with ice, and sets about gathering the rest of his things. “Where is this fully-stocked kitchen of yours anyway?”

Ah. There was something that Ignis hadn’t thought through. “I live in the Crown City. It is a bit of a drive, unfortunately.”

“Huh. Me too. If we’re both heading that way…”

“Then it’s settled.” Ignis says a little too quickly, then hesitates to make up for it. “Erm. I left my vehicle on the road near the haven. I assume you parked nearby?”

“Yup. Only saw one other car there, probably yours. You lead the way then.”

They gather up their belongings and begin to make their way toward the road.

“It occurs to me that I haven’t asked your name, nor given mine. Ignis.”

“Noctis. Friends call me Noct.”

A moment passes awkwardly as they hurriedly put their things back down, then reach out to shake hands. Noctis clasps his other hand over the handshake with a warm smile. It almost feels like meeting a celebrity, someone who knows how to make the person in front of them feel like the most important person in the world. Even though Ignis has never met anyone famous, he feels oddly sure of it. Noct… this Noctis doesn’t feel like a stranger at all.

He shakes off those strange half-impressions, and with a little more idle chat about their respective homes, they make it to their cars. Noctis — for he is still too new for Ignis to feel comfortable calling him “Noct” — lives in an upper-class district of central Insomnia, near the top of a high-rise (“Still nothing but city as far as the eyes can see.”), while Ignis’ residence is a one-bedroom apartment in a humbler area (“It’s nothing special, but I can’t complain either.”) Ignis settles into the driver's seat of his car, and turns the ignition, then adjusts the radio for the long drive home.

* * *

By the time they arrive, it’s close to eight, a perfectly fine hour for breakfast, but both of them are beginning to feel the effects of a sleepless night. Upon entering the apartment, Ignis makes a beeline for the refrigerator and cracks open a can of coffee. Noctis quickly foregoes the cooking lesson in favor of pulling out his phone, then immediately drifting off on Ignis’ sofa, and Ignis doesn’t have the heart to wake him. He’d programmed his rice cooker the night before so that there would be food when he arrived home, and he finds it obediently warming a finished batch of rice, hopefully enough for two if he spreads it out. That leaves the fish. Once cleaned, the recipe really is simple, just oil and a pinch of salt and seasonings to bring out the natural flavor, but there’s an art to making sure the skin turns out crispy and the flesh soft and flaky. He plates the finished meal, and goes to wake Noctis, finding he has already stirred at the scent of food.

“You’re right, this is good,” Noctis tells him through a mouthful of fish.

“Thank you.”

Their conversation over the meal is sporadic, they eat in a sleepy silence. At length Noctis cleans his plate and announces, “Thanks for the food. Guess I’d better get going before I fall asleep again.”

“Are you alright to drive?”

Noctis grimaces, “I… think I can make it home. Probably.”

Ignis purses his lips. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go. I won’t have you causing an accident on my account.”

He immediately worries that might have been too forceful, demanding that someone he’d only just met stay in his apartment. But what he’d said is true. If he lets a friend (and he already considers Noctis a friend) drive in a fatigued state, and something happens, he won’t be able to forgive himself.

“Look, take the bed for a few hours. I won’t disturb you. I just… worry about these things.”

Noctis’ gaze softens. “I’ll take you up on that offer then.” He makes his way into the bedroom, only a few steps in the small apartment, and sits down on the bed. 

“Don’t worry, I’m a pretty heavy sleeper. If you need to come in here for anything, feel free.”

Ignis gives a nod.

“Hey, you should come and lie down too. Plenty of room. Not like you got any more sleep than I did.”

Ignis clears his throat. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take the couch until you’re done.”

By the time he glances back Noctis has already pulled the blankets over himself and is snoring lightly. Ignis looks him over, his expression relaxed, lips slightly parted, dark hair mussed and spread over the pillow. For a moment he entertains the notion of joining him, sleeping with the weight and warmth of someone else in his arms. Waking up together, and then… Noctis had definitely been flirting with him at the lakeside. It’s not out of the question to imagine that things could go further.

He shakes his head. Fantasies present a temptation, but he isn’t going to take advantage of this situation. He closes the bedroom door, settles on the couch, and begins checking the notifications on his phone. But the text blurs in front of his eyes, and he sighs heavily, sets his glasses and phone on the table, and allows sleep to take him.

He wakes after a few hours of rest to the early afternoon sunlight, his body has never permitted him to sleep through the day no matter how much he might need it. In any case, he hopes the renewed energy will carry him until evening, then he can turn in early.

The bedroom door is still closed, and whether his guest remains inside or not is impossible to discern. He turns the handle slowly, so that there is only a gentle click, and peeks in. Noctis is still dead to the world, face down in the pillow now. Ignis closes the door again.

He answers some emails and checks the news, then logs into King’s Knight and clears his daily quests. He hits a seven-day-streak and is rewarded with a bounty of gems, but his gacha pulls fail to yield anything interesting. And as he stubbornly refuses to spend real money on virtual items, that’s it for the day. He puts his phone back on the charger.

Well, he’s managed to kill most of the afternoon. Time to start thinking about dinner. It seems likely that Noctis will be staying. Dinner for two then. There is plenty of fish remaining on ice, and though his fridge needs restocking, he can probably manage fish and chips with a side salad. He sets about preparing a pot of oil for deep-frying, then chops potatoes and mixes the batter for the fish.

It might be the smell of cooking that rouses Noctis, as he stumbles out of the bedroom bleary-eyed and mumbles a few words.

“The bathroom’s on your left,” says Ignis, hazarding a guess.

Noctis waves a hand in what Ignis assumes to be a thank you before vanishing behind that door. He re-emerges, appearing slightly more animate and somewhat dampened, likely from splashing water on his face.

“Smells good.”

“I took the liberty of preparing dinner for two,” says Ignis, checking if the fish is done. “Of course, if you’d rather take it home with you, I can get a container.”

Noctis looks uncertain, “You probably want me to get out of your house already, right? Can’t believe I slept all day.”

“Not at all. It will be better eaten fresh. Now, take a seat.”

Now that they are both rested, conversation flows naturally over their meal. Apart from his fishing hobby, Noctis works part-time here and there, changing jobs when it suits him.

“And yet, you live in the Central District?”

“Yeah. Uh, my father left the apartment to me. And some money. Enough to get by, you know?”

Ignis suspects  _ enough to get by _ might actually be a small fortune, but refrains from commenting.

“Yeah, I know. I’m spoiled.”

“Life treats us all differently. What matters is how we use our advantages.”

“Sounds like something Dad would have said,” Noctis responds with a sad smile.

Ignis hesitates. “Your parents… they’re both…?”

“Dead? Yeah. Mom… there was a car accident. When I was about eight. Dad went last year, he’d been sick for a long time though, so it wasn’t a surprise. Just…”

“Difficult,” Ignis supplies. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah. So, like, I appreciate that you didn’t make me drive home this morning. Dad would have wanted to kill me, taking a risk like that.”

“It’s my pleasure, really,” Ignis says. The words come out as a reflex, but as he speaks, he realizes just how genuine they are. “I didn’t quite realize it until now, but I haven’t had guests since I moved here. It’s been… well, quite nice.”

Noctis chews thoughtfully, swallowing his food before speaking.

“It’s been a long time since someone cooked for me. Well, apart from the guys at my local take-out.”

He looks up from his plate with a quiet smile.

“This is really good. Compliments to the chef.”

“And to the fisherman who caught it.”

Noctis grins, “I’ll catch as many as you like if you’ll cook them for me.”

“You may have yourself a deal.”

Ignis smiles as he said the words, then pauses. It’s an odd feeling to banter like this with someone he’s known for less than one day. Already, they’re talking as if this were not a one off meeting, as if they intend this to continue for long into the future. Quite different to his usual, reserved habits. A jolt of anxiety strikes him, is he being presumptuous?

_ It’s been pleasant, but I really mustn’t expect this to go on. Enjoy the encounter for what it is. _ He insists to himself, then sets down his knife and fork.

Cutlery clinks as Noctis finishes his meal and rises to his feet.

“Need help with the dishes?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. I won’t keep you any longer.”

A slight frown appears on Noctis’ face, a glimmer of perhaps loneliness in his eyes for a moment, before he nods.

“Yeah, guess I’d better be going. Thanks again for the meal.”

“It was truly my pleasure,” says Ignis, meaning it.

* * *

He washes the dishes and leaves them to dry while he showers, then retires to the bedroom, holding in one hand a crinkled scrap of paper that Noctis scrawled his phone number on.

“You said you were new here, right? Call me if you want to hang out or something.”

“Of course,” Ignis had said. If he decides not to see Noctis again, he has an easy out. The ball has been left in his court. On the other hand, if he does want to see Noctis again, it will be up to him to initiate. He’ll have to come up with a suitable pretext for calling. An event, or destination. As much as he’d like to simply have his new acquaintance present in his apartment again, he’s unlikely to bring himself to say that over the phone.

He sets the piece of paper on the dresser and sinks into the bed with a sigh. The sheets still hold a faint whiff of the other man’s scent, sweat and the outdoors and a hint of some fragrance, cologne, perhaps.

_ Gods, I’m still thinking about him… _

It’s a strange nervousness, a buzzing that fills his body even over the heavy tiredness. Is he really so neglected that the slightest bit of attention leaves him feeling this way? It reminded him of the times he had not realized that he was ravenous until the moment someone arrived with food.

Sleep evades him, and so he finds himself running a hand down over his abdomen, slipping under the waistband of his boxer briefs. He lets out a quick sigh at the contact, head falling back onto his pillow, eyes slipping closed as he works himself up, then cracking open as he snatches a handful of tissues from the bedside table, and fumbles in the top drawer for the bottle he knows is there. He let out a hiss as he drips the cool liquid over himself, a little too much at first and then a decidedly pleasant contrast of sensation, though it quickly warms against his body heat. He moves slowly, and leisurely, comfortable in his bed with no need to rush the proceedings, but his hand soon speeds up of its own accord. It’s almost embarrassing how soon he starts panting, then whimpering. It’s not long before one of his legs starts to shake.

He pulls back then, withdrawing his hand, smoothing the other across his chest, running fingers down his side. Aching in frustration, he stubbornly waits for his breathing to calm, for himself to come back from the edge. Denial is another form of pleasure. He wants this moment to last.

But not for too long. He takes himself in hand again, and this time he can’t hold back even if he wants to. His breath comes in short, sharp exhalations, choked-back moans, twitches run along the length of his thighs, he lets out a stream of incoherent pleas and curses. He buries his face in the sheets and inhales the scent deeply as he comes.

There is a pause before he gingerly wipes up and rolls over to dispose of the tissues, body still heavy with exertion and satisfaction. Unconsciousness takes him even before he can roll back to the center of the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

He keeps his eyes on the road ahead. Above extend vast arches of stone, reaching into the sky, like the ribcage of something that lived in an antique age. The sun stings on his arms and face, flickering between light and shadow as he passes underneath. The road is lined on either side with desert and sand, dust-devils swirling far away on winds that do not reach him. The earth reflects the heat back upward like an oven. He keeps his eyes forward, because there is no looking back.

For how long have they been travelling? He cannot remember. There is only moving forward, in possession of the one precious thing that was saved. He doesn’t let himself remember, or turn his head to look. Perhaps a storm is following them. Perhaps the rains will come. But ahead lies only desert and dust.

_It’s not just taking back. It’s payback._

The lands are hot and dry and endless. Civilizations have risen and fallen, but the bedrock below has not changed for a thousand, for ten thousand years. People spill blood and give their lives, just to say that they own the flimsy layer of topsoil, all that they perceive, and what they believe is the land itself. Even when they excavate the stones, and cut them to pieces to build walls, fortresses, towers, the sands shift and time reclaims them. The rumbling of the earth is the laughter of a forgotten god.

But in the back seat he has something precious. Something that survived the fall of a kingdom. Something that was saved.

He doesn’t dare look back.

* * *

Not wanting to appear overly eager, he refrains from calling the number for a few days. Instead, he returns to work, burying himself in paperwork and reports. The days are grayer than before, and he wondered if something within him had changed, since certainly nothing around him has. He dreams of brighter colors than ever appear during the light of day.

And when he does call the number, the voice that answers is like a streak of watercolor bleeding across a dampened page. He soaks in the vividness, the sense of something solid just out of reach.

“Ignis. I was hoping to hear from you.” Noctis says.

“Ah. I’m glad.” Ignis responds, already smiling despite himself. “I’d like to meet you again. If you’re… amenable to the prospect, would you be available this Saturday afternoon?”

“I’ll make sure I am,” Noctis says with assurance, and Ignis finds himself stammering.

“Erm… don’t feel that you have to— If you have other commitments, then, it would be fine if—“

Noctis laughs, “I’m pretty sure I am free, just gotta double-check. Don’t worry about it.”

Ignis gives him the details of the fancy coffee shop on the viewing deck of the New Citadel, hoping it’s as good as the reviews say. Noctis hmms and haws and Ignis wonders if he should have chosen something a little more casual for a lunch date. Perhaps this kind of thing isn’t Noctis’ style. But before they hang up, Noctis says, “Looking forward to it,” with such genuine warmth he feels his heart skip a beat. As he puts his phone away, he realizes he’s smiling like a fool, even surrounded by stacks of paper that still need to be reviewed.

* * *

Saturday afternoon comes and Ignis waits on the viewing deck. A breeze ruffles through his hair and tugs at his collar, unobstructed at this height. The sky rises like a grey dome over the city, darkening toward the center as an evening storm rolls in, though where Ignis stands is still diffusely sunny. He stakes out a table by the railing, and looks down at the miniaturized view of the cars and people below.

“Man, I can’t stand on the edge like that. Makes me think of falling.”

It’s Noctis’s voice, behind and to the right. He stands there, wind brushing gelled strands of hair against his cheeks, a blazer jacket over a black t-shirt and jeans. He gives the outfit much more class than it warrants. 

“The call of the void, I suppose,” Ignis muses. “It’s not uncommon to think of things like that, of exactly what you mustn’t do.”

“Oh, like when a sign says ‘wet paint’ and people touch it to make sure?”

“Something like that. They say that everyone has those feelings from time to time.”

Noctis seems to shiver a little. “Guess that’s why people like to skydive and stuff. Hard to imagine what it feels like.”

Ignis steps away from the railing, shaking away the image of his own body, caught between the endless sky and the grey reflection in the glass of the building. Something about falling reminds him of his dreams.

“I can’t say it appeals to me. Come on, let’s order our drinks.”

They approach the counter, and Ignis orders a black coffee, made with Accordan beans. He wonders if Noctis would like any suggestions on what to try here, but before he can ask, Noctis leans on the counter and launches into his order.

“Hey, yeah, can I get a large iced frappe with six pumps of caramel, extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce?”

“Good gods, man,” Ignis says, before he can stop himself.

“Not much of a coffee person, to be honest. Though I could use the caffeine.”

“Bad night?” He clicks his tongue sympathetically.

“Nah, just sleepy. Happens a lot.”

“Oh. Well, let me know if the conversation isn’t as scintillating as you had hoped. I don’t want to knock you unconscious.”

“I’m sure you won’t. Seeing you makes me feel better already,” Noctis grins as he meets Ignis’s gaze and holds it, just long enough to be meaningful. Significant.

“Oh,” is all Ignis manages in response. Well, that’s quite flattering, he supposes. Though he’s beginning to lament losing the larger part of his vocabulary whenever his companion starts batting eyelashes. The barista places his cup in front of him, and he barely remembers to thank her.

“I think there’s a table for two over there,” Noctis jabs a finger toward the balcony railing, waving his drink around dangerously in the process. They pick their way through the tables and chairs and take their seats.

“Nice view, from back here,” Noctis says.

From the balcony, they can see for miles over the concrete jungle of Insomnia, gleaming silver-grey and with the jewel tones of glass building facades. The breeze this high is chill around their ears, and tastes sweeter than it ever does at street level. Here and there are marked squares of green, barely more than postage stamps, indicating urban parks. Further beyond, there are grayed-out ruins that remain on the edges, where the city has yet failed to expand to its former limits. Some are kept for historical preservation, others are left alone for their structural instability, and in more places are unsightly piles of rubble moved from the areas that were rebuilt and then no further, little more than a garbage heap. Further still there are true green spaces, farmland and forests that have always lain within Insomnia’s borders, but the buildings, old and new, form a barrier that hides them even from the highest vantage point.

“One could think that the city is all there is,” Ignis muses.

“It’s kinda scary when you say it like that,” Noctis squints a little against the distance. “There’s so much out there. Imagine if this was all you knew.”

“We are fortunate to be able to come and go as we please. It wasn’t always so.”

“Yeah. So how far have you been?”

Ignis coughs a little. “I spent some time in Tenebrae as a child, on account of my father’s work. But since then, I haven’t left Old Lucis. And I haven’t even seen all of that.”

“Same. I still haven’t been to the Vesperpool, or the Rock of Ravatogh for that matter. I mostly go to Galdin or Alstor for fishing. Caem sometimes.”

“That far?”

“Yeah. Usually overnight.” Noctis takes a long drink of the liquid confection in his hand.

Ignis sits back in his chair, coffee still too hot to sip.

“I don’t usually go to Alstor. The city is too bright for stargazing, so I usually travel just far enough that I can’t see the lights. But I’ve been to Galdin. Caem too.”

“Doesn’t Galdin have a lot of lights too? You can’t even fish from the dock.” Noctis’s voice conveys deep disapproval for the resort’s prioritization of visibility over fishing. Spoken like a man who’s never fallen off a midnight dock.

“Mm. Hence why I don’t go there often.”

“Alstor’s better. Lucky we were there at the same time, huh?” The straw presses against Noctis’ lips, leaving a reddish mark and a fleck of milk foam glinting in the sun.

“Indeed,” says Ignis, then takes a larger sip of coffee than he intended, and winces at the heat. Well, he won’t be appreciating the finer flavor notes of the import coffee today, since he’s just scalded his tongue. He sets the cup down and gives it an annoyed glance, as though it wounded him on purpose.

A voice comes from across the deck.

“Noct!”

Ignis follows Noctis’ gaze to a tall young man with pale hair and eyes. From the other continent, it seems.

“Cecil! Didn’t expect to run into you, here of all places…”

“Just stopping by.” Cecil takes a sip from a take-out coffee cup. “Thanks for staying late the other day.”

“Ah, it was no problem. You’ve been helping me out since I started.”

“Not like you need it. You’re a fast learner.”

Ignis leans back and observes the conversation, reduced to a spectator. A co-worker? Or a manager? It seems to be a work relationship, but Noctis slides into familiarity. There’s a slap on the arm, a touch on the shoulder, all grins and laughs, and suddenly his blood has been replaced with iced coffee, chill and bitter. He surprises himself. Jealousy has always seemed illogical, a waste of energy that could be used on improving one’s own situation rather than coveting what others have. He certainly has no desire to stop Noctis from talking with his friend, such a thing would be boorish. And yet, he was finally basking in a shared moment with Noctis, and now he feels its absence like the sun vanishing behind a cloud. Cecil glances at him, and he gives a tight smile in return, hoping he isn’t glaring. He suspects he might be.

There’s a last slap on the back and a “I won’t keep you, then,” and the interloper finally departs. Noctis leans forward and takes a sip of his iced sugar-milk.

“Sorry. Guy I know from work.”

“Not at all.” Ignis shakes his head, as if it will remove the last traces of the dark mood. Noctis takes another sip of his drink, glancing up at Ignis for a moment under lowered eyelashes. The gesture is artless enough that it doesn’t seem calculated, but regardless, it has the intended effect. 

It’s a gift, Ignis thinks, to be able to make the person you are speaking to feel like they are the only one in the world, one that seems as though it would suit a celebrity or leader. Certainly fields Noctis could succeed in, if he ever tried to do so. But though such a thing might be good for the world, there’s a carefreeness to him that would be lost. 

Ignis clears his throat. “Work been busy, then?”

“Oh, it’s not too bad. Just had someone call in sick last minute. You know how it goes.”

“Indeed.”

“How about you?” Noctis returns.

“Ah. Uneventful, I suppose you could say. Which has its benefits, but doesn’t make for thrilling conversation.”

“Yeah, I get that. So… what do you want to talk about?”

Ignis thinks for a moment, he’s honestly quite fine with almost any topic as long as they can keep spending time together. So he’s not quite sure why his mouth comes up with “Do you ever have strange dreams?”

Noctis laughs awkwardly, “What, are you my shrink?” He sips his drink, and then his eyes turn thoughtful. “I mean… don’t we all have weird dreams? I think it’s more unusual for mine to make sense.”

“I suppose so.” Ignis coughs in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, that was a strange thing to ask. I guess it’s just been on my mind recently.”

“Yeah? Well I’ll tell you one of mine if you tell me one of yours. Just don’t… try to psychoanalyze me or anything, alright?”

“Wouldn’t dare,” replies Ignis, then clears his throat. “Well… these things are often hard to remember, once you’re awake. But I have a feeling that in my dreams I’m always searching for something. Something important. And if I don’t find it, something bad is going to happen. Sometimes it does happen. And then I wake up.”

“Sounds kinda stressful,” muses Noctis, twiddling his straw.

“I sometimes wonder if that’s why I wake up feeling tense.”

“Yeah, no doubt. Actually, is it okay if I… Do you want to know what I think it means?”

“Is it about my mother?” Ignis inquires.

“Ha. Nope, I was going to ask if you feel like there’s something missing in your life. Like… if you’re not satisfied, or something…”

Ignis looks into his drink for a moment, at the dark line around the inside of the cup.

“I thought I was satisfied. Or at least I thought that I should be. I have nothing to complain about. But…”

“It’s not that simple, is it?”

“No. I thought that I’d finally made it, but it seems I have simply come across a plateau. Which is easier than climbing a cliff, but… it seems I still have further to go.”

“And you’ll be happy when you get there?”

Ignis blinks, a little surprised. Of course, if he were asked upfront if a promotion to department head would make him happy, he would have said no, that there are more important things in life than money and prestige. But what else is he working toward? The way he’s grown up, the way his parents and educators taught him, it was as if everything would simply fall into place once he had a “good job”. And he supposes he’s never really questioned that. The idea that one could work hard their whole life and still not be happy is a frightening one.

“Perhaps what I’m looking for isn’t an achievement at all.”

“Maybe.” Noctis looks out over the balcony, seeming a little dejected, as though his question hadn’t been answered.

“Perhaps,” Ignis says, leaning in conspiratorially, “what I’m looking for is a charming young man to have coffee with.”

Noctis returns his smirk. “Oh, you think so?” Ignis isn’t sure if he’s questioning the part about looking for a man, or the part about himself being charming, and fidgets with his sleeve.

“I believe you said you were going to tell me one of your dreams?” He pushes the conversation back onto Noctis.

“Oh. Right.” Noctis thinks for a moment. “Well, last night I dreamed I saw my dad again…”

“I don’t think that’s strange at all, given the circumstances.” Ignis tries to keep his tone reassuring. Noctis furrows his brows.

“Yeah, maybe, but when I woke up… I don’t know, it felt weird. Like I hadn’t seen him for much longer than he’s actually been gone. And…”

Noctis seems to lose his words at this point, looking down at his hand, which is gripping something invisible. After a moment, he reaches up and touches his chest. His eyes are downcast and his expression troubled. Ignis doesn’t push further.

“Would you like to go for a walk? The Memorial Park is not too far from here…”

Noctis meets his eyes again, and his easygoing cheerfulness returns.

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

* * *

The air is warmer at street level, but the breeze has picked up by the time they arrive at the park. A crumpled flyer skates along the ground at Ignis’s feet, followed by some leaves. Noctis picks up the flyer and deposits it in the trash can as they pass.

The hedges and garden beds are budding with new green, but for the most part, the flowers are only beginning to open. The people, too, are sparse, the crowds of late spring and summer still a few weeks away. It’s a peaceful and relaxing green, the open space affords them no privacy, but is somehow intimate nonetheless.

They walk a path shaded by trees, trading idle comments on the weather and the plants, but for the most part in a comfortable silence. Neither of them exactly leads the way, but their wanderings take them toward the water feature at the north end of the park.

A statue stands before them, a memorial to the King of Light. The figure is dressed regally, in a mantle and holding a sword with wings at the hilt. Spreading behind him is a pond of fish, ornamental carp that Noctis clicks his tongue in disappointment at, as though he might have actually considered pulling out a fishing rod here. The garden beds surrounding them are rich with the scent of sylleblossoms, and when the breeze blows, it picks up blue petals.

“Are you named for him?”

Noctis smiles his slightly embarrassed smile.

“Well, you know, it’s not an uncommon name. My Dad said when he was growing up, it seemed like half the boys were called ‘Noctis’ or ‘Nox’... and the girls were all ‘Dawn’ or ‘Sunny’ or ‘Aurora’. Kinda glad the trend died off before I was born. Since Mom insisted on my name and all.”

“I see.” Ignis recalls a Nox and two Auroras in his own graduating class.

“What about you? Any connection to _that_ Ignis?”

“Scientia? We’re not related. But I was born shortly after he passed. I suppose the news kept the name fresh in my parents’ minds.”

“He was the last survivor, wasn’t he?” Noctis’ tone is thoughtful.

“Yes, lived into his eighties after everything that happened. If I had to be named for someone, I can’t complain. By all accounts, he worked tirelessly to rebuild Insomnia, up until the end.”

Noctis skips a pebble into the water, fish scatter in all directions. “Feel kinda sorry for him. Must be tough, outliving everyone you know.” He looks up, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, is that a weird thing to say? I mean… not like I knew him. For all I know he was fine with that. Not like I’d wanna die _first_ either.”

He looks down at the water with a pensive expression, and Ignis is touched by his reflexive sympathy for a long-dead stranger. There’s an odd wave of sorrow lapping at the inside of his chest. He couldn’t imagine being fine with it, living on after everyone he had cared for was gone. But Scientia had been an intensely private man and rarely touched on his personal affairs in interviews. Apart from his unshakable loyalty to the memory of the Chosen King, little was known to the public.

Or at least it had seemed so when Ignis had stared at his cellphone in a late-night stupor, reading everything about him at least once, as though a dead man who shared his name could somehow reveal anything about his own nature.

There’s a splash in the pond, a flick of orange fins on the surface, and they both look up. Noctis smiles a little sheepishly, and they move on.

He takes Noctis’s hand, back by the wrought iron gates at the entrance. “I’ve had a wonderful time today. Thank you for joining me.”

“Oh no, pleasure’s all mine. It was nice to hang out again.”

“Indeed,” Ignis says, then frowns a little at implications of the phrase “hang out”. Though Noctis seems like he might be the type to use it for any social interaction, platonic or otherwise. It does make it a little awkward to follow up by asking for another _date._

“Again sometime?”

“Yeah, I’d love to. Uh, not quite sure about my schedule for next week yet, though.”

“Well, you don’t have to decide right now. Why don’t you give me a call when you find out?”

And that causes a tendril of nervousness to curl in his gut. It’s out of his hands now, and he’ll simply have to wait to find out if Noctis decides to blow him off politely or not. Or if Noctis will simply let their connection slip away, distracted by other things. It’s so easy to do, in the hustle and bustle of city life. Not for the first time, Ignis wishes human interaction were a little more straightforward.

“Yeah, will do.”

* * *

He does the laundry and wonders when Noctis will call.

He clears his daily King’s Knight quests and wonders when Noctis will call.

He makes too much dinner for one person to eat and wonders when Noctis will call.

He pulls the blanket over his head and wonders when he’ll stop being a bloody fool.


	3. Chapter 3

The skies are grey, but the air prickles with an oncoming storm. The wind has begun to pick up, wet and heavy. He’s standing on some kind of stone hill, engraved with curling symbols. If it’s writing, he can’t tell. Around him, there is a ring of battery-powered lanterns, giving off a faint hum. There’s the buzzing of insects circling them, and every now and then the plink of a collision.

Is it safe here, surrounded by the stone and the lights? It all seems to be set up to ward off danger, and yet woefully inadequate. The rock is exposed and there’s nowhere to shelter from the storm. What can the light provide, other than the ability to see what is coming for you and cannot be avoided?

There’s a tower, dark and imposing, perhaps a few miles away. When the veil of rain rolls in, the shadow is the only thing that can be seen. It splits open, like a great eye, and the insides glow red. The air is about to burst open. With the crack of a whip, the lightning strikes. Again and again it cleaves the stone from the tower. The creations of man are not permitted to reach for heaven. Sooner or later, judgement comes from above.

Like insects scattering in sudden light, shadows flee from the tower. They sweep across the ground, vague forms swirling on eddies of wind. Inky hands begin to scratch and clatter around the edges of the stone.

In the pounding rain, the howling wind, the sweeping darkness, he can do nothing but hope the light will hold.

* * *

By the beginning of the next week, he’s told himself to give up, and told himself over again. Over the days, he’s gone from expecting a call constantly, to only thinking of it at odd moments, in between tasks and when his mind wanders. But even that’s too much to spend on an illusion, this silly  _ crush _ that he’s been building up inside his own mind. It’s time to let it go.

He half-heartedly daydreams, considering where to make his next stargazing trip to. Maybe he should venture briefly outside the city limits tonight. It will cut into his sleeping time, but he needs a pick-me up. And if he goes to a lakeside, then maybe— 

No, for goodness sake. He’ll go to the desert in Leide, and avoid running into any captivating fishermen who are not that interested in him after all. He checks the weather report on his phone and finds that it should be a clear night, if a little chilly.

Dutifully, he finishes compiling his reports and advisories for the day, hastily enough that he can leave on time. He’s slipping on his jacket when Noctis texts him.

_ Free this evening? _

_ I gotta get out of the house. _

* * *

He meets Noctis by the waterfront, salted breeze ruffling his hair as he shrinks inside a black, woolen coat. The air bites as the evening chill rolls in, tasting of damp. The sky remains orange, but the streetlamps have already lit up with a faint yellow glow. Now and then, there’s the faint thunk and rattle of the impact from a particularly large bug.

“Where to?” he asks.

Noctis shrugs, “Didn’t really think that far, honestly.” But he turns and begins walking, and Ignis falls into step by his side.

“It’s nice down here, though the wind’s a bit nippy.” Ignis says, after clearing his throat to break the silence. The waves hiss and seethe against the breakwater. Noctis makes an agreeing noise in his throat.

“Learned to fish down here. Dad used to take me. We used to live on the hill over there, the three of us.” He indicates with a sweep of his hand. “That was before…”

The breeze picks up and the waves roll in and out.

“Anyway, yeah, water’s kinda murky here. Mostly bottom-feeders. They don’t taste great.”

Ignis hums, “But the memory is the important thing.”

“Yeah.”

They walk further; the wind becomes colder and the orange sky fades to a dim purple haze. A lighthouse stands on a hill ahead, that protrudes out into the sea. Ignis gestures to it.

“Can we go up there?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of a hike. Steeper than it looks. But there’s a lookout.”

“Perhaps that should be our goal for the evening, then.” He gives Noctis a smile.

“I don’t have any better ideas.” Noctis withdraws his hands from his pockets. “Sure you’re not cold?”

Ignis is wearing a blazer and not a coat, and the wind is whipping through it. But he coughs.

“I’m sure if I keep moving, I’ll be warm enough.”

“If you say so. We don’t have to go all the way up there, if it gets too uncomfortable.”

Ignis makes a conciliatory noise, but having decided to climb the hill, something stubborn has settled inside of him. The only reason he’d turn around now is if Noctis asked it. Which is mostly because he’d do anything Noctis asked.

“Come on,” he says, picking up the pace. Noctis takes his hand.

By the time they near the top of the hill, his fingers are frozen and his calf muscles burning. Noctis has long since returned his hands to his jacket pockets. On the rocky slopes, the wind from the ocean hits them full blast. But the stars have emerged, sharp and crystal even this close to the city lights, which spread out in warmer hues below. He rests his hands on the metal railing, feeling the cold sear through his skin, and looks out across the dark ocean. Here and there in the gloom is the grayed-out cap of a wave far below, but for the most part, the darkness falls over them like a veil. Insects chirp here and there, something scurries across the path ahead, too quickly to make out.

“Was that a cat?”

“A wild animal, perhaps.”

They reach the top at last, pace greatly slowed from when they started. Above them, a beam emerges from the lighthouse, a slow and steady rotation. There’s a bench overlooking the water. Noctis makes his way over to it.

Ignis soon joins him, and is pleased when Noctis nestles into his side. Apart from enjoying the physical contact, he could use the warmth.

“Geez, your hands are freezing.” Noctis rubs them between his own, warm hands, prompting a bout of pins and needles as the blood flow returns. Ignis tries not to wince.

“Look, you take the coat for a while. I got sweaty walking up here.”

He tries to refuse, but Noctis is already taking it off. It’s too small for Ignis to wear the normal way, and so Noctis drapes it over his shoulders, sleeves hanging loose. Ignis sighs and rearranges himself on the bench so that the coat drapes neatly, and pulls Noctis in close so that they can share body heat as much as possible. He rests Noctis’s hands, clasped with his own, on his lap.

There they remain for some time, gazing up at the stars and the slowly turning beam of light, down at the slices of deep blue ocean caught for a moment in the illumination, the cold crash of the waves. Salt spray and ocean sound and solitude, and the simple warmth of another person. For this, the sting of the wind can be endured.

“You stargaze, right?”

“Oh yes,” Ignis says, rubbing his thumb against Noctis’s wrist.

“Tell me about the stars.”

Ignis cranes to look at the night sky. The beam from the lighthouse intermittently cuts a pale slice from the sky, making his dark-adjusted eyes water, and only the brightest stars remain visible. But it’s enough for him to orient his mental map of the sky, and find what he’s looking for.

“There. See that cross shape?” He points and Noctis squints in response.

“Not… really…”

He sighs, and leans into Noctis, so that they’re cheek-to-cheek. He takes Noctis’s arm and lifts it, pointing his finger and tracing the constellation in the sky.

“That’s the Draconian’s Blade. The brightest star— the one you can see there— that’s the center of the crossguard. Then there’s the two either side of it. If you go up a bit, there’s the pommel, and down here… here’s the tip of the blade.”

“Neat.”

“See that reddish star, about in the middle of the hilt? That’s Carbuncle.”

He lets Noctis’s arm drop back down, but doesn’t move away. Noctis doesn’t pull back either. His ear and cheek are cool from the wind, and Ignis pulls him closer to keep him warm.

“Odin’s steed is also usually visible around this time of year, but it’s a little too dim to make out. Ah— that one is the Messenger Star. It always shines in the north. Very useful for navigators, back in the old days.”

Noctis has begun to nod against his shoulder. Ignis wonders whether to be offended, but when he stops talking, Noctis digs his fingers into Ignis’s arm. And so he continues, keeping his voice soft and low, naming everything he can think of in the heavens and telling their stories. He keeps going until he feels Noctis’s body begins to tremble in the cold.

“Come on, let’s head back."

* * *

By the time they have descended from the hill and are walking back along the shoreline, the sea breeze has stilled, and the cool of the night has become much more bearable. The crisp crash of the waves is louder here, an interminable rhythm like a heartbeat. In a way, the ocean seems like a living thing, impossibly vast. No wonder people had once thought it was a god.

“Do you think they guide us?”

Noctis’s voice is muffled as he walks ahead of Ignis.

“Do they what?”

“The stars. Do you think they mean anything? That they can tell you what kind of person someone is, or what’s going to happen?” Noctis has come to a standstill.

Ignis catches up to him, warms one of Noctis’s hands between his own.

“I don’t need the stars to tell me you’re wonderful,” he smiles. Noctis gives him a light smack on the arm with his free hand. “Don’t get all mushy on me. Do you believe in it or not?”

Ignis considers. He’s never been one for newspaper astrology, but neither can he say that he has no interest or belief. He says what he does know.

“Those born under Ifrit’s Cauldron are said to be passionate and emotionally intense, though they may learn to hide it as a defense against the world. Fire is the element of inspiration, of desire, but also of destruction. It is said that you should never wrong a fire sign, or harm those that they hold dear. Their anger is not easily assuaged.” He folds his arms, taps his fingers. “To be honest, I’d rather not believe I can be defined so easily. But I can’t deny that it’s mostly true.”

"Oh?" Noctis tilts his head. "Then what do they say about people born under the sign of the Draconian?"

Ignis pauses to organize the information in his head. 

"Introspective and reserved, but determined once they set their mind upon a goal. Ah. Hm. Prone to communication difficulties and being misunderstood by others, and thus being understood by someone may be what they desire most of all."

Noctis purses his lips. "Not wrong. Though I don't really know what I want most of all."

"Few people do." Ignis hesitates before continuing, but his instinct to share knowledge wins out. "They say that the blade of the Draconian is narrow, and sharp on both sides. Those born under it are either blessed by the Gods, or doomed."

Noctis gives a strained laugh, "Not sure I feel blessed," and Ignis winces internally, how could he have forgotten that Noctis's short life has been marked by loss? But he plays along with Noctis's attempt to laugh it off, draping an arm around his warm shoulders and saying,

"Well, don't count yourself out yet. You are with me."

Noctis groans and balls up his fist to give Ignis the lightest of punches on the arm, then nestles against him. They walk arm in arm back to where their cars are parked.

The sea quietens just for them, and the night is velvet blue. For a moment, the wind dies.

He doesn’t kiss Noctis. The moment slips by and is taken by the wind. Cold stings at Ignis’s lips as he watches Noctis leave, and the sensation lingers even after he has slipped into bed for the night, a bitter cursing of lost opportunity.


	4. Chapter 4

They stand on the shore, or at least Ignis thinks so. Later, when he glances backward, he will realize that there was nothing but water spreading out behind them, rushing around their ankles, sucking at the skin. The tide comes in. The water laps at his calves. The smell of salt lingers on the breeze, and the wind teases at his hair, tickling around his face. The tide comes in. He clasps the cold hand settled in his own, tighter and tighter. The water is up to his knees now, and when the flow switches direction, the undertow tugs at his footing, stronger each time. Stone, cold and rough, bites into the soles of his feet. The tide is coming. The spray wets the hem of his shirt, the salt chaps his skin. Nothing but midnight skies above, and empty, black water below, and the tide is coming. There’s nowhere to run.

The crests of the waves are nothing compared to the jewels of her scales.

The black of the abyss is nothing compared to the darkness of her maw.

The roiling surface warns of the shadow below, the one who watches always from the depths.

The water slams into them, chest height now, and Ignis feels his grip begin to weaken as their clasped hands are forced back. At the peak of the wave, his feet leave the stone and he bobs, trying desperately to maintain his place. If he loses his foothold on the stone, who knows when he’ll next touch solid ground. The waves come in sets, and before he knows it, he’s let go, paddling with both arms to avoid being swept away. He can’t reach the bottom with his toes anymore. And Noct— 

Noct slips under, as though simply falling asleep. He sinks like a stone. Ignis cries out and dives, struggling to reach him in the turbulent, murky waters, swallowed by moonless darkness. He’s crying out, crying, and the salt that meets his tongue is as bitter as tears.

_ Stop. We’ve already lost too much… _

In the depths, Noct’s eyes snap open, and they shine a merciless red.

* * *

Under the crackling fluorescent light in his kitchen, Ignis stares into space, tired from a long day at work. His phone buzzes on the counter, and he nearly slaps it onto the floor in his haste to answer. If this is another blasted telemarketer, they’re going to get the sharp side of his tongue.

It’s Noctis.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Ignis says smoothly, “I was just starting to think about dinner.”

“Good, me too.” There’s a fumbling noise. “I mean, I just caught a  _ huge _ salmon, and I was thinking of bringing it over.”

“You have need of a chef?”

“Yeah, absolutely. I was thinking, uh, if you could teach me…”

“Of course. I charge by the hour for lessons.”

Noctis splutters a little and Ignis chuckles.

“...Okay, so you weren’t serious. Because, like, I can pay you. If you want to be paid. Don’t wanna take advantage here.” Noctis sounds so genuinely contrite that Ignis feels slightly guilty.

“I was joking. There’s no need. In fact, I’d rather not add monetary transactions to our friendship, if it can be avoided.”

“Yeah. Right. Wouldn’t want to ruin the… friendship.”

Oh dear. He’s apparently giving the wrong impression all over this conversation. It’s time to be frank.

“Noctis, I want to see you again.”

“Oh good.” The voice crackles with relief.

“Come over, bring your fish. You provide the ingredients, I’ll cook.”

“Alright. Okay. Want me to pick anything up?”

“Hm. Yes, a bottle of wine. Red, if you will. I believe I have all the seasonings at hand.” Ignis says, but shuffles through the spice rack with his free hand just to check.

“Consider it done. Oh, and I’ll try to stay awake for the lesson this time.”

“Much appreciated. Drive safely.”

“Yeah, see you soon.”

He takes advantage of the warning to start prepping a salad and sides. Noctis arrives at his door about twenty minutes later, a large cooler under one arm and a shopping bag in the other. He hands the bag to Ignis, then shucks off his shoes at the door. Ignis retreats to the kitchen and investigates the contents.

“Is that okay? I don’t really know anything about wine.”

There’s three bottles inside, and Ignis knows enough about wine to blink in surprise at the labels. A reserve from the finest vineyard in the Cleigne region, a newer vintage from a small organic farm in Cavaugh, even an import from a famous region in Tenebrae. Noctis has probably dropped what Ignis would call a week’s salary on these bottles.

“Please tell me at least one of those is okay,” he says, setting the cooler on the table.

Ignis blinks again, “Well, that will certainly do.” He withdraws one of the bottles to inspect it more closely. “This one is probably the driest. I’ll use this in the dish. Though it seems a shame to use it for cooking instead of drinking.”

“Oh.”

“Ah, there will be leftovers, of course. At least a glass each. Now show me that fish.”

Noctis obliges, and removes the lid. The salmon lies on a bed of ice, iridescent and shimmering, its mouth still open in a final gasp. Its tail fin is folded back to fit inside the cooler.

“I cleaned it already.”

“Good.” The incision on the underside is tidy, and Ignis opens it up to peek inside, making sure that nothing remains. “You know how to fillet a fish?”

“Sure do. Skin on or off?”

“Leave it on,” Ignis says, retrieving a knife so that Noctis can butcher the fish in the cooler.

“How much of this are we going to use?”

“About half of one side, I’d say. But do both sides now,” Ignis says, already dicing mushrooms and transferring them into a bowl.

“Can do.” Noctis brings a slab of fish into the kitchen and sets it down, knife beside it. “Mind if I rinse my hands?”

“Oh, erm. Go ahead,” Ignis says, opening the faucet and then shuffling around as he switches places with Noctis. His apartment kitchen forces them into close proximity, and he’s uncomfortably aware of it. He scrunches his face as Noctis shakes the water from his hands and droplets hit his face and shirt.

“Sorry.”

“No matter. Anyway, if you would, could you cut that into pieces about one and a half to two and a half inches wide? Start narrow and cut them wider toward the tail, where the flesh is thinner.”

“Gotcha.” A pause. “Uh, how precise does this have to be?”

“Try to keep all the pieces about the same total size. Otherwise the smaller ones will be done before the bigger ones are cooked through.” He peers over Noctis’s shoulder to supervise, then fires up the gas stovetop, setting a pan on top.

“Are you watching?”

“Yup.”

“I’m going to use butter this time. You can make it with olive oil, or just vegetable oil in a pinch, but I find this gives the best results.” He explains as he begins the cooking process, “If you do use butter, be careful to keep the heat low, or it will smoke.”

“Got it.”

“First thing we do is cook the mushrooms. Pass me that jar of garlic paste… to your right… thank you. A little of this goes a long way. Black pepper, too. You can be more generous with that.”

“You’re… not going to use cups or measuring spoons or anything?”

“I generally don’t. Unless I’m baking, that’s more finicky. But for home cooking I find it best to remember what flavors go together well and combine them at will. It means that you can use the ingredients that are at hand without being hamstrung by a particular recipe.”

He gives the mushrooms a stir as they begin to hiss in the pan.

“Also, it’s more fun.”

Once the mushrooms have begun to cook, he adds the liquid ingredients— fish stock, wine, a dash of lemon juice.

“Now we need to reduce this.”

“Uh… reduce?”

“It means letting some of the water evaporate to make a sauce. In the meantime, I’d like you to sprinkle salt and pepper over the fish. Just a pinch on each piece. Then turn them over and do the other side.”

“Cool. I can manage that.”

Ignis keeps an eye on the mixture in the pan as it simmers. The mushrooms turn a purplish red in the wine.

“If there’s too much liquid, you can add a thickener like cornstarch to the sauce. But I think this will be fine.” He adds some more butter to prevent sticking and turns to Noctis. “Alright, now add the fish.”

He turns the heat down and shuffles out of the way to allow Noctis access to the frying pan. The fish sizzles as it hits the hot metal. Without thinking, he reaches around and pats Noctis on the hip to move him back to his original position, then becomes awkwardly aware of how close they’ve been this whole time. It doesn’t help when Noctis responds by placing a hand on the small of his back and looking over his shoulder, bumping against him. When he breathes in, his side brushes against Ignis for the briefest moment. He’s so warm.

The fish needs to be turned.

“...Let me flip these over.” He steadies his breath and attempts to turn his attention back to the food, it wouldn’t do to burn things when he’s meant to be the expert here. Noctis’s fingers jump a few inches upward, then trail down his spine. Ignis shivers a little. The fingertips start rubbing gentle circles on his back. It’s a terrible thing for Noctis to be doing right now, and Ignis has no intention of telling him to stop. Even when the hand removes itself for a calculating moment and gives him a light slap on the rear. Ignis chokes back an undignified noise of surprise.

“Th- This should be done now.”

“Smells good,” says Noctis, in a tone of complete innocence and, when Ignis glances over, with a smile of complete mischief.

“You,” Ignis says with a hint of scolding, “need to get me some wine glasses. Over there.”

He gives Noctis a nudge in the right direction, his own touch lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary. As he watches, he wonders if the wine is a good idea. He’s lightheaded enough already. But Noctis hands him the wine glasses, and he pours, and they clink them together before taking a sip. There’s a subtle, earthy bitterness to the wine, forest floor, with notes of sour cherry and blackberry. Though Ignis might not have chosen it off a menu, he can appreciate the complexity. Meanwhile, Noctis makes a face.

“Not to your liking?”

Noctis’s gaze focuses on his glass, swirling the liquid while eyeing it with distrust. He takes another sip, and seems to go through a range of emotions before settling on mild displeasure.

“Mmn. Well, it’s not  _ horrible _ or anything…” He takes another sip and shrugs.

“You don’t have to force yourself.” Ignis takes another sip from his own glass. “I think most prefer something a little sweeter, particularly if they don’t drink wine often.”

“I guess.” Another sip and a grimace. “It’s kinda… Like I don’t like it at first but the aftertaste is alright. And I keep drinking it. For some reason.”

“Perhaps you’ll get used to it.” Ignis swirls his glass a little, watching the wine cling to the sides.

“Hm. It usually starts tasting better after the first half a glass.” 

“Many things do. Shall we take a seat?” He ushers Noctis out of the kitchen and sets his glass on the table, then returns for the food. He sets down two plates of fish, and the bowl of salad in the center, along with a sliced loaf of fresh bread and a dish of butter.

Their dinner conversation is languid, more eating than speaking at first. Noctis claims the majority of the bread, but only a token portion of salad, and carefully extracts the tomato slices to the side of his plate. Ignis makes a note to leave them out next time.

“—‘ts good,” says Noctis through a mouthful of fish. “Tastes a bit like the wine, but it works somehow.”

“Yes. The other two bottles would have made a sweeter sauce. That’s alright for red meat, but this one is better for a light meat like fish.”

He realizes he’s been neglecting his own food in watching Noctis eat, and directs his fork to his mouth. The fish is much fresher than what he can buy at the supermarket, and better for it. The wine makes an excellent pairing. So does he and Noctis, he thinks, their skills complement each other, at least when it comes to food. He’s still unsure if they’re a good match in other ways, but he certainly hopes so.

“How confident do you feel in the kitchen?” If he’s going to teach Noctis to cook, he needs to ascertain where he’s currently at.

“Uh… depends? There’s a few quick things I can make, but I don’t usually cook from scratch. Like, I wouldn’t die if there were no restaurants, but I couldn’t invite anyone for dinner. Unless they really like noodles.”

“That’s better than some people can say. Where did you learn?” Ignis uses his fork to pull away another morsel of fish.

“I worked part time in a restaurant. Nothing fancy, but they had me help out in the kitchen. Most of the time I just heated stuff in the microwave, but there were side dishes that we made from scratch.”

“I see.” Noctis seems to have become somewhat of a jack-of-all-trades through these part-time jobs, though Ignis is beginning to wonder why he’s been through so many.

“What about the place where you work now?”

“Now? Oh, it’s an electronics store. I work on the sales floor, answering questions, trying to talk people into buying stuff. It’s alright, I guess. The staff discount is good, at least.”

Noctis takes a bite of salad, seemingly to get it out of the way.

“I’ve been there for about a year now. My friend in the camera section introduced me. I’m mostly in the computer department, but I kind of cover everything when they need me.”

“You must know a lot,” Ignis says mildly.

“Eh, well, enough to sound like I know what I’m talking about,” Noctis gives a self deprecating laugh. “What about you?”

“Oh, well officially I’ve just become a junior financial strategy advisor.” Ignis swirled his wine in his glass. “Just as fascinating as it sounds, I’m afraid. But I can’t complain too much.”

“You must be pretty smart, too, then.”

“I did well enough at school. But I’ve found real life to be rather different from studying for exams. Creative thinking, social intelligence, even just identifying what you should be working on without being told… There are many skills that aren’t simply taught.”

“Or that no one ever thinks to teach,” agrees Noctis. “I feel like… well, maybe everyone feels like… I’m just pretending to know what’s going on half the time. But fuck knows if I have a plan.”

“I’d say you’re not alone.”

“Guess we’ll have to teach each other, then.” Noctis rests his arms on the table, leans closer, lips still darkened by wine. Ignis drinks in his unassuming beauty. At some point, they clean their plates, and Ignis lingers for a while, enjoying the satiation and the wine buzz and the quiet company, before clearing the table.

Noctis follows him into the kitchen, offering help, and Ignis passes him a dishcloth. He’d put the pan and other utensils in the sink to soak earlier, and it doesn’t take much scrubbing to remove the grime. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Noctis watching him as he works, a hand reaches out to brush back a strand of hair that has fallen in front of his face. He turns, and passes the frying pan to Noctis, who dutifully wipes it off and sets it back on the shelf it came from.

“Don’t worry about the plates, leave them on the counter.”

“Sure thing,” says Noctis, stacking the ones he’s already dried. Ignis passes him the last dish, and when he’s done wiping it, he reaches for Ignis’s hands with the dishcloth, patting them dry, reaching into the spaces between his fingers. Ignis sets the towel aside, and then tenses as Noctis slides arms around him, pressing against his back. Noctis is warm and heavy, and he enjoys the touch as he drains the sink and gives the counter a wipe down. Then he turns.

Noctis gives him space to move before pressing back up against him, relaxed but with a look of intent in his gaze, and a lopsided smirk that Ignis knows means trouble. Fortunately, he’s entirely in the mood for some trouble. His hands hook over the back waistband of Noctis’s trousers, pulling him firmly against Ignis, and their lips finally meet.

More than anything, it’s  _ right. _ Perhaps there was no cinematic one-liner beforehand, and his apartment kitchen is no fairytale location, but Ignis is sure that this is exactly where he’s meant to be, kitchen counter digging into his back, hands twisted in denim, Noctis’s tongue grazing along his lips before he pushes further and deepens the kiss. Ignis moves a hand to the back of his head, running his fingers through spiked dark hair, mussing the careful styling. There’s no space between their bodies, yet Noctis is trying to push harder against him, and Ignis still pulling him down. The friction is making him groan into Noctis’s mouth. It’s impossible to not push back.

They part only to briefly gasp for air, then resume the drowning. Lips, tongues, wandering hands, pressed flush against each other from head to toe. Eventually they surface. Noctis’s expression is hazed with arousal, pupils wide, hair clinging to his face, and Ignis is sure he looks similarly ruffled. It’s become very necessary to reach into his trousers and adjust things for the sake of comfort, his hand encounters a wet spot on the front of his boxer briefs. Noctis reaches for his wrist, and Ignis pauses, the fingers trail down to undo the button on his slacks, then there’s another hand wrapped around him, giving a light squeeze through the fabric. He leans back and lets Noctis kiss him again, the pressure of a palm on his arousal rendering him near incapable of thought. He does manage to wonder if he’s going to explode just from this, deep kisses and insistent, slow stroking. It should be embarrassing, but he’s worked up enough that any form of release is starting to sound like a good idea.

He doesn’t quite get there, because Noctis breaks the kiss and the hand withdraws, cool air hitting the damp fabric. He’s leaning against the counter, dazed and slightly frustrated, when Noctis slides down, kneeling on the floor in front of him, and,  _ oh. _ Alright then. That’s certainly an option.

“Said I’d pay you back, right?” Noctis grins, eyes glinting through his messy fringe.

Ignis gathers a convention of all his remaining brain cells and charges them with the task of forming words. “I— you don’t have to— this isn’t a transaction… Noct… I wouldn’t want…”

“I’m joking, don’t overthink it.” Noctis leans in until Ignis can feel his breath in sensitive places. “If you want this, I want this.”

Ignis’s brain cells manage a gasp of “Yes,” before Noctis puts his mouth over the bulge in his briefs and breathes warm, wet air. There’s pressure from his lips and tongue, wonderful even dulled by the fabric. But it’s outclassed immediately when Noctis pulls the elastic down around his thighs and swallows his cock.

“Oh— oh  _ gods _ — “ His hands clutch the counter on either side of him in an effort to remain standing.

He can tell Noctis would be smirking if he didn’t have his mouth full. His eyes glint as he bobs up and down. The view would be obscene enough on its own, but paired with the wet heat of his mouth and the movements of his tongue, it’s indescribable. His hand comes up to stroke the shaft while he focuses his lips and tongue on the head, merciless on the sensitive underside. Ignis is shaking, barely holding himself up. He wonders if his grip will leave dents on the countertop. His voice is background noise—  _ gods perfect you’re perfect don’t stop don’t stop please _ — noise that he only notices when he tries to force out a coherent warning.

“I— I’m—  _ NOW. _ ”

And Noctis wraps his arms around him at hip height and takes him all the way into his mouth, just before everything goes blissfully, utterly blank.

* * *

Noctis leaves shortly after, though Ignis tries to persuade him otherwise, kissing him, running hands through his hair, until Noctis pulls back and then simply rests his head on Ignis’s chest.

“Let me?” Ignis says, brushing hair behind his ear. Noctis shrugs his hand away, takes a step backward.

“Nah. Just wanted to do something for you. Gotta get back home and rest up for my shift tomorrow.” He’s standing by the door, and Ignis holds himself back, as much as he wants to close the distance.

“Alright.” It’s not alright, but Ignis knows he has no right to demand more than he’s been given. And so he lets Noctis leave his side. “When can I see you again?”

Noctis gives a lopsided smile. “How about next weekend?”

So far away. But it’s something concrete, something that he can look forward to.

“This time, you should come to my apartment.” Noctis speaks casually, but he looks back at Ignis, as if unable to restrain his anxiousness for a reply.

“I’d love to.”


	5. Chapter 5

The long hall is filled with sunlight, which reflects in shimmering, cool tones off the marble columns and floor. Ahead of him lies a table spread with almost endless pastries. The confections all look identical at first glance, but closer examination reveals that each has slightly different contents. Contents which are revealed by small bite marks or nibbles at the edges, the pastries seemingly discarded afterward. Jam spots the tablecloth, which is scattered with crumbs. It takes Ignis a moment to notice a photo album among the rubble, partially obscured by half-eaten pastries, four pictures to a spread, one frame conspicuously empty. A pale fox uncurls from its nest in an empty wheelchair, leaps up onto the table, and gives him a quizzical look.

There’s a tug on the edge of his shirt, and he looks down to see a small, dark-haired boy, the only other person in the room. His shirt hangs off his thin frame, contrasting with paper-pale skin. A smudge of reddish-purple jam marks the corner of his mouth.

“Can you help me?” he says, in an oddly polite, high voice. “I’m trying to find the right memory.”

* * *

He doesn’t intend for it to happen, but he doesn’t not intend it. Before he can arrange a time to visit Noctis’s apartment, he finds himself wandering through the shopping mall where he knows Noctis’s workplace is located. It’s not his first time visiting this location, but it’s hardly a regular haunt for him— there are more convenient places to buy groceries and this mall’s glory days are far behind it. The corners in between the buildings and up against the walls are darkened with grime that the cleaner’s broom cannot remove, and no one has thought to order a pressure cleaning. Here and there, a trail of rust weeps from under a sign. The illuminated letters on the arcade facade flicker. He watches the people coming and going, harried parents with children, a group of high school girls chattering loudly, a stone-faced man with a cigarette. A group of young men passes through, voices loud and language foul. It isn’t exactly the wrong side of town, but perhaps what one would call a rough area, divided from Noctis’s neighborhood by several train crossings. It doesn’t seem to be the most convenient location for him to work a part time job. Was it simply the presence of a friend to put in a good word for him?

Drifting around the stores, he finds little of interest. The scent of coffee tempts him, and he finds himself ordering a black coffee from a ubiquitous chain before moving on, wincing at the burnt flavor when he finally tastes it a few doors down. If he’s come to sate his curiosity about the area, then he should be done now. But he isn’t sated. He tells himself firmly that it isn’t appropriate to bother Noctis at work— assuming he’s even there today. But his feet carry him by the store one more time on the way out.

“Ignis?”

He turns and Noctis is there, a cap on his head emblazoned with the store logo, peaks of hair sticking out from underneath. It shouldn’t be as cute as it is.

“Oh. Erm. Hello! I was…”

“Missed me?”

“...just passing by,” Ignis finishes lamely, he knows he’s been caught out.

“Huh. Well, good timing, I just got out of work. Wanna wander around?”

“... Might as well.” Ignis clears his throat and adjusts his glasses.

“Cool. I’m gonna go get a milkshake.” Noctis shucks off the hat, and leads the way back to the coffee chain, where he orders something referred to as a  _ triple-choc megashake. _ Ignis quietly disposes of the rest of his coffee in the trash.

“Want some? I haven’t touched it yet.” Noctis offers him the first sip. It’s like sucking ice cream through a paper straw, chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce and flaked chocolate blended in. One sip is admittedly delicious, but Ignis feels his blood sugar spike on the spot, and hands the drink back before it does permanent damage. At least the inside of his mouth no longer tastes like burnt coffee. Noctis puts the straw in his mouth and slurps distractingly hard. Ignis coughs and looks away.

He follows Noctis around the mall, the same stores he’s already rejected, and wonders if it holds any more interest for Noctis than it does for him. He hasn’t stopped to buy anything, and even his window shopping is perfunctory. Oddly enough, it’s the jeweler that catches his eye.

“That’s kinda neat,” Noctis says, gesturing with his milkshake toward a silver, skull-shaped pendant in the window. “They don’t usually have stuff like that.”

It’s true, the rest of the display is rather mundane, engagement rings and delicate necklaces, along with the odd religious motif. A placard states that the pendant is part of of a showcase by a particular designer, pieces inspired by the collection of the former royal family of Lucis on display at the national museum.

“I’m gonna get it,” Noctis decides, and before Ignis can warn him that there’s no price tag in the display, he’s marched into the store and up to the counter. The clerk fetches the piece from the window, and Noctis inspects it for a moment before nodding and handing over his credit card. Moments later, they’re leaving the store, Noctis carrying the necklace in a carefully wrapped box.

“How much was that, by the way?” Ignis ventures.

“Eh, didn’t see the number. Forty thousand and something?”

“Forty thousand… yen?”

Noctis snorts, “No, Justice Monsters tokens.”

Ignis huffs.

“Look,” Noctis fidgets with the shopping bag and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s no big deal.”

There’s an awkwardness between them, Noctis’s gestures are just as tense and embarrassed as Ignis’s are. Fine. If he wants to spend whatever funds he has on something worth a fortnight’s rent to Ignis, it’s not Ignis’s place to stop him. He just hopes that Noctis isn’t under the illusion that money can never run out, the misconception that leads so many lottery winners to ruin within a few short years of their windfall. And perhaps he’s also a little bitter, a little jealous, a little concerned that anything he can offer Noctis will be a mere trinket in his eyes. He wants to spoil Noctis someday, to watch him open a gift with excitement in his eyes, for him to look at Ignis with gratitude. How can that ever happen if Noctis buys these things on a whim?

For his part, Noctis seems aware that he’s unearthed a gap between them, and hurries to shrug it off. 

“Wanna check out the arcade?”

“Might as well, I suppose.” Ignis follows his lead, under the neon sign and between the flashing cacophony of machines. Plush toys sit piled high in glass vaults, under mechanical claws. Another game spews a string of tickets into a teenager’s hands. Noctis leads him to the back, racing games on one side, shooters on the other.

“Your choice.”

“I must admit I haven’t played an arcade game in quite some time.” Ignis ponders over the decision. “Perhaps I’ll give this a shot.”

A flicker of regret, quickly hidden, appears to pass through Noctis. “Fine,” he says with a shrug, and inserts a coin into the game. Ignis takes the seat next to him, trying to adjust to the handling of the plastic steering wheel and sticky pedals. Noctis scoots his seat forward.

The screen fills with far too many selections, car model, engine, tyres, even the paint job. Ignis makes an educated guess for the first one, then picks mostly at random, or unintentionally from fumbling with the controls. Noctis considers his options for longer, but not by much. The majority of it seems to be spent on a black and silver paint job and decal with matching trim.

The screen counts down from three to one and the race begins. It’s not too different to driving a regular car, but Ignis’s instincts are far too cautious, and he’s soon overtaken by half a dozen computer-controlled vehicles as well as Noctis himself. But come the first sharp corner, he spots Noctis’s black car clipping the tyre wall and bouncing off at an angle, struggling to regain control. Darkly muttered curses come from the seat beside him as he passes. Ignis too finds himself wrestling with the steering wheel, struggling to make the corners without losing all the speed he’s built up in the process. There’s another curse from beside him, the sound of thumping on the steering wheel. Ignis takes a corner too widely and his car drags in virtual sand and gravel. The finish line is just ahead, and he comes in at a modest fifth place. Noctis straggles into thirteenth.

“Yeah, this one’s kinda bullshit. Should have warned you.”

Ignis can hear the gritted teeth through the effort to be casual. Feeling somewhat magnanimous from his modest victory, he offers with a chuckle,

“You pick the next one then.”

“Alright.” Noctis drags him into a curtained-off booth, and hands him a light gun. Ahead of them is a screen with staggering, corpse like figures. A flurry of bats sweeps across, and a story cinematic begins playing,  _ something, something, ancient curse, _ and that’s as far as it gets before Noctis inserts a coin to start. Ignis frowns, he meant to offer to pay for this one. He weighs the light gun in his hand and pulls the trigger experimentally a few times. The game starts.

The image on the screen progresses as if they are on rails, some sort of theme park ride that comes to a grating halt after mere moments. Noctis is poised, but Ignis isn’t quite ready when the first creatures pop out from behind cover. Noctis has already cleared half of his screen, and picks off the last two monsters shambling dangerously close to Ignis’s position.

“Gonna have to be faster than that.”

“Understood.”

He clears the next round himself, screen splattered with green pixelated brain goo, then fires a shot wide when the next one drops from the ceiling with a screech. His second shot connects with the figure’s shoulder, chipping its HP, and a headshot from Noctis finishes it off. The game moves them forward again, the waves of enemies get faster, and Ignis fires off a last desperate volley of shots before his half of the screen is drenched in blood red splatter.

“YOU DIED,” the game informs him helpfully.

“For real?” Noctis demands, before returning his attention to the waves of approaching zombies. His brows are furrowed in concentration, and Ignis leans back and watches him work. A monstrous dog leaps toward the screen and he barely takes it down in time.

“Kinda easier with two people.”

At the end of the stage, he fails to stop the boss’s advance in time, and the roof falls in. He drops the gun, leans back and sighs.

“You could have rejoined.”

“Oh. Erm…” Ignis realizes belatedly that of course these games will always allow more coins to be inserted. “You seemed to be doing quite well on your own.”

“Yeah, I’m good like that.” Noctis rolls his shoulders. “I can spend hours here, but honestly? You look a little out of place.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yep.”

Ignis opens his mouth but Noctis speaks first, “I mean, whatever. I’m not really feeling it today either. Wanna keep walking?”

“Lead the way.”

They drift past fashion outlets that are of no interest to either of them, before arriving at a jumble store. Most of the things displayed appear to be overpriced junk, but Noctis slips inside and Ignis follows.

“They have the weirdest stuff here sometimes,” he mutters, tracing a hand over a dusty shelf.

Ignis inspects a carved trinket box and some figurines. The style is out of date, but neither are they antiques, merely kitsch. On the shelf below he finds a globe, about the size of an orange, that shows a map of the night sky rather than the surface of Eos. An interesting curiosity.

Noctis is flicking through a bargain bin of old video game cartridges. “This one would be worth a lot if it still had the box. Not a lot else. You find anything interesting?”

Ignis shows him the globe.

“Neat. Feels like it’s carved out of some sort of stone.”

“I believe the outside is thin sheets of lapis lazuli. The stars are likely merely glass, and the rest of it gold plated. But it’s rather charming.”

“Yeah, I like it.” Noctis gives the globe a spin. “Reminds me of you, somehow.”

“I’ll buy it then,” says Ignis, with a sudden determination. Noctis wordlessly lets him pass through the cramped aisle to the counter in the back of the shop, where an old man sits, feet up on a pile of boxes. He grumbles in words slurred beyond comprehension, but rings up the purchase, slipping it unceremoniously into a recycled plastic bag.

Once they’re outside the store, Ignis retrieves the globe, dusting it off with his sleeve.

“This may be an odd gift, but I want you to have it. If it reminds you of me.”

Noctis takes it with both hands, an odd expression on his face. Then he smiles.

“Thanks. I’ll… find somewhere to put it. Uh…”

He fumbles with his things, groping around inside the box from before. Ignis has almost forgotten about the necklace, and is surprised to see the chain glimmering around Noctis’s fingers.

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly…”

“I said,” and there’s the sound of gritted teeth in Noctis’s voice, “it’s no big deal. C’mon, you could use a bit of edge to your style. Can’t go around looking like a schoolboy forever.”

“I look like a— I’m sorry?”

“No offense. You look great and all. I just think this would suit you more.” He reaches up with one end of the necklace in either hand, and Ignis dips his head to let him fasten it.

“Very well. How do I look, then?”

“Try messing your hair up a bit.” Ignis sighs but obeys. “Yeah, that’s good. Like a rock star.”

“I thought I was a schoolboy a moment ago.”

Noctis leans forward and flicks open the top button on his shirt, Ignis blinks in flustered surprise. “Yeah, well. Small changes can make a big difference.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ignis says, adjusting his collar and he will, at least, make a note of the things that get him an approving gaze like the one Noctis is giving him now. Noctis looks up at the dimming sky and lowering sun, then checks his watch.

“Look, I, uh, have some plans for tonight, but I’m free tomorrow. Come to my place? I’ll send you the address.”

“Of course. I won’t keep you then.” Ignis stands and watches Noctis leave, feeling the usual wild urge to follow him, and tamping it down. He’s getting into his car when his phone buzzes with a message containing an address and a link to a map.

He knows the neighborhood, though he probably could have guessed from what Noctis described. He’s more surprised to find that he knows the building already. Fulgeo Towers, a sleekly-designed residential high-rise just a few years old, the tallest for several districts around, though even with the spire it still doesn’t match the Citadel in height. But it’s certainly a landmark.

His hand moves to the pendant still around his neck. If Noctis can afford to live there, then it really is just a trinket to him. Pocket change, really. He’s still touched that Noctis wanted him to have it, of course. But the idea that one of the nicest things he owns is practically nothing to his —  _ not boyfriend yet, _ he corrects himself— new acquaintance inspires some vertigo about their relative positions. He dresses in a manner appropriate for the office, does he really look like a schoolboy? Looking in the rear-view mirror, he slides fingers through his hair, arranges his collar to sit a little more open. Is this what Noctis finds appealing? And even if it is, should he change himself to impress someone likely difficult to impress? But he wants to, he wants Noctis’s attentions as often as he will give them. Now he knows how that feels.

_ We’ll see tomorrow,  _ he tells himself with a flutter of nerves. He tenses his fingers on the steering wheel, then starts the engine and heads home.


	6. Chapter 6

It is cold and starless. A sweet fragrance blows on the wind, as if to make up for its icy sting. His fingers trail against leaves and petals as he walks, he tramples the plants that snatch at his clothing. His hands are damp from the frost, glassy shards of ice that brush from the flowers and melt on his fingertips. When he brushes away the ice, the flowers wilt to mush— the frost has killed them. Yet their frozen stems hold them upright, they have not realized that they are dead. All is silent, as though the chill has stolen the sound from the air. All is dark, if he were to raise his hand, he could not see it before his own face.

_ Is this death? _ he wonders. But the bite of the wind on his cheek remains painful, his heart still aches in his chest, and his legs continue to carry him forward. He isn’t dead yet— or perhaps he merely has not realized it. How long can the world go on, frozen, empty, and in darkness? The light has been stolen.

The icy fingers grasping at his ankles weaken and recede, the plants become shorter and more stunted until he is walking on bare earth. There is nothing to stop the wind as it sweeps across the land and continues on. The scent has changed too, to one of earth and damp, the only sweetness a sickening note of decay. His legs keep moving forward, though he cannot see where he is headed, or how far he has to go. And though he dearly wishes he could, perhaps it’s for the best. To see the empty distance ahead might be to give up hope entirely. The land sleeps, beckoning him to join it in frozen respite.

Not yet. He made a promise, swore an oath long ago, and nothing in this endlessness could persuade him to break it. The emptiness steals his vision, mutes his hearing, numbs his touch, but nothing can break his will.

* * *

The apartment complex is a towering thing of glass and black stone, a guard posted outside the automatic doors. Ignis doesn’t know the code and stands there awkwardly as he texts Noctis to say he’s arrived. Noctis buzzes the door open and tells him to stay in the lobby. A few minutes later, he emerges from one of the elevators, clad in an old t-shirt and sweatpants.

They take the elevator back up, Ignis observing the security camera which promises 24-hour monitoring and prevents his hands from wandering. He places a hand on the small of Noctis’s back, and is rewarded when Noctis shifts his weight slightly, resting against Ignis’s chest and shoulder.

The elevator dings at floor forty-five of fifty. There’s a short corridor to walk down, with a mere handful of doors, compared to the dozens of apartments on the lower floors. Noctis opens the door at the far end of the corridor.

It’s as spacious as Ignis expected, perhaps more so. Glass extends from ceiling to floor, giving a stunning vista of the city as the sinking sun bathes it in orange and pink. A glass coffee table sits in the middle of the living room, it’s ornate base forming an odd contrast with the empty styrene cup of noodles sitting on top, fork still in place. At the other end of the table are some discarded candy wrappers.

With some satisfaction, Ignis notes the star globe he gave to Noctis on their previous meeting, sitting on a shelf among what appear to be collectible figurines. His hand moves to the pendant around his neck, fingers toying with the chain..

“Not much, but it’s home,” says Noctis with just a hint of irony. “Take a seat?”

After a moment of indecision, Ignis sinks into the plush sofa and immediately never wants to stand again. He could sleep on this thing, it would probably be better than his own bed.

“Coffee? I got some of that canned stuff you like.”

“Please.” Ignis replies with a hint of amusement, for a moment he was expecting Noctis to make the coffee, but he clearly doesn’t drink it himself. And when Noctis places a can of Ebony in front of him with the tab already pulled, he’s touched by the attention to detail. Noctis flops onto the sofa next to him, a can of soda in one hand, some pamphlets in the other.

“Yeah, so I can’t do the fancy cooking thing. Here’s all the places that deliver, don’t look at the prices. I got it covered.”

Ignis glimpses the usual pizza and burger chains in the pile, but most of them are places he never would have thought offered take-out. He furrows his brows— you can  _ order _ steak? There are sushi platters and oven baked dinners and stir-fry buffets. The last one looks good, actually, a long-standing restaurant originally opened by a Galadhian refugee, now famous for its particular blend of spices. It’s still a single location owned by the same family, and despite its unassuming appearance and reasonable prices, a reservation is required due to the sheer popularity. Ignis has been wanting to try it.

“Yeah, that place is good. Took me forever to get a delivery menu, it’s only for  _ special customers _ .” Noctis snorts.

“Then I’ll have to take advantage.”

“Yeah, I figured that was the plan for the evening,” Noctis quips, and then as Ignis inhales his coffee, “The garula in darkshell sauce is really good… Actually, you know what? I’ll just order a bunch of stuff to try.”

“Wonderful,” Ignis croaks. Noctis takes out his phone.

“Hey, it’s me. Yeah, got a guest. Uh, yeah, gimme the 11, 13, 17, 24, 25, and a large 37. Oh, and a bottle of Elixir. Hang on.”

He turns to Ignis.

“Want any drinks?”

Ignis gestures to his coffee and Noctis shrugs.

“Yeah, just the one. Oh, and give me half a dozen of the annin-dofu. Yeah. Thanks. Bye.”

“Half a dozen?”

“Keepin’ em for later.”

Ignis raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Noctis flops onto the couch next to him, and Ignis slings an arm around his shoulder. His small frame is warm as it settles into Ignis’s side. He imagines that he can feel Noct’s heartbeat. Ignis leans in, head tilted, and Noctis meets him in a kiss. It’s hesitant at first, as though each of them are worried that their previous meeting might have gone too far, but builds, step by step, as they take turns pushing just a bit further, opening just a bit more. Hesitancy gives way to desperation, one of Noctis’s hands is on his chest, the other tangled in the hair at the back of his neck, he responds by taking hold of him, lowering him back onto the couch. He breaks the kiss, observing Noctis laid out on the cushions, hair mussed and eyes bright. He’s looking up at Ignis, who feels a surge of joy at the fact that it’s  _ him _ above Noctis,  _ him _ reflected in those eyes, and isn’t he lovely, like this on a lazy day at home, relaxed and warm and trusting. Ignis kisses him again, slowly lowering himself until they’re pressed together, but keeping his weight supported on his own arms and knees. Noctis wraps his arms around Ignis’s waist, preventing retreat, moaning into the kiss. Somehow, he’s going to have to resist ravishing him until after their food arrives. It seems like the distant and unimportant future.

They’re both ruffled and sweaty by the time the doorbell rings, as welcome as an alarm clock on a cold morning. Ignis reluctantly moves aside to allow Noctis to answer the door. He returns with several bags full of plastic containers, which Ignis helps him to lay out on the table. He cracks the lids of a few, and a pleasant harmony of appetizing scents reach his nostrils, a plethora of spices he can name and some he can’t.

“Yeah, so,” Noctis runs a hand through his hair, “Eat however much of whatever you like. If there’s leftovers I’ll keep ‘em for later.”

Ignis is quite sure there will be, there’s enough food here for a large family. Taking a plastic fork and plate, he pulls a container toward himself, meat and noodles in a dark-colored sauce with a peppery scent. Careful not to scald his tongue, he takes a bite. It’s delicious, rich and savory with a touch of spice. He doles out some fried rice, which is made to a fairly standard recipe, but equally well executed. Noctis sorts through various containers of meat and rice based dishes before pushing one toward Ignis, some kind of stir fried greens flecked with red pepper.

“This one’s all for you.”

Ignis nods in thanks, then takes a forkful and offers it to Noctis with a smirk.

“Ahn,” he says, opening his mouth.

“What? No! I said— I don’t even like…” The fork nudges against his cheek. “Ugh,  _ fine.” _ Noctis wraps his mouth around the fork and swallows the mouthful of greens with an exaggerated grimace. “Okay, so it’s not  _ that _ bad. Still the worst thing here. Gimme those noodles.”

Ignis obeys and Noctis loads his plate up with some of the noodles and most of the remaining meat, picking through for the best bits. Ignis turns his attention to what appears to be marinated octopus, a dish he rarely has the opportunity to try. Then there’s some kind of sliced poultry, skin on and crispy, with what smells like a sweet and smoky barbecue sauce. He decides he’s going to have to try everything.

Apart from the meals he cooks on the weekends, which are made with consideration for nutrition and budget as well as taste, he rarely slows down to enjoy food like this. On workdays, it’s more about keeping his body going. They sit on the couch picking over the dishes long after they have ceased to be hungry, purely for the experience of the different flavors, trading idle conversation and finally coming to rest. Ignis did have further plans for the evening, but they’re going to have to wait until he can move again. Noctis opens one of his annin-dofu desserts.

“I’m amazed you can even think about it.”

“Got a second stomach just for desserts,” Noctis asserts, breaking the smooth surface with his spoon. He switches on the television and flicks through the channels with an unenthused face, eventually settling on some kind of game show.

“Taelpar Crag,” Ignis answers to the first question given.

“You think so? I thought it was Ravatogh?” Noctis scrunches his eyebrows together, but Ignis is vindicated when the answer board shows “Taelpar Crag” moments later.

“Huh.”

“Ifrit, the king of Solheim was interred at Ravatogh. The shield to the first king of Lucis was in Taelpar.”

“Guess so. You a history buff?”

Ignis uncrosses his legs and leans back. “Somewhat. As a child, I went through a phase of reading everything I could about myths and legends.” He doesn’t mention that it all felt real to him. “It’s strange to think that it’s been less than a century since the King of Light, and yet it seems like a bygone age. If there was magic in the world, there’s not a trace of it left now.”

“But there was magic in the world.” Noctis’s voice is firm, he’s insisting, not asking. “There’s no scientist who can explain ten years of night, or how anyone lived through it, or how whatever caused it could be fixed in a single day. It’s not ancient history. We know.”

“I don’t disagree. But sometimes I wonder. Why would such a phenomena exist from ancient times up until a mere handful of decades ago, and then vanish entirely? The Cult of Light can’t even conclusively demonstrate magic exists, and you know they’d jump on anything that proved them right.”

Noctis snorts, “Yeah, well, there’s believing in magic, and then there’s the Cult of Light. I’m not saying we should all go around worshiping dead kings. Even the kings would probably think that was creepy. Not to mention the door knocking.”

“You get them here too? I wouldn’t have expected they’d be allowed in the building.”

Noctis snorts. “Nah, they can’t get in without the code. But we used to get them at our old place. Usually when I was trying to sleep in.”

Ignis makes a sympathetic noise, rearranging some of the empty containers on the table.

“What about you? Do you think there’s Gods or something?”

Ignis pauses, he’s barely even articulated his beliefs to himself, let alone to another person.

“Something.”

“Like?”

“Well, I’m not sure how much of the old stories are true. There’s evidence for a plethora of monsters and other entities, but whether any of them were  _ Gods, _ exactly…”

He removes a fallen noodle from his lap and frowns, dabbing at the sauce stain with a napkin.

“People want an explanation for things, like earthquakes and tidal waves. They want to know that there was a reason their loved ones were taken away, or to imagine that they can avoid such things if they pray hard enough. I can’t begrudge them that. But…”

His hands are tensed on the fabric of his trousers.

“Personally, I can’t imagine it would be better to feel that someone died because of a whim of the Gods as opposed to random chance. To know that there  _ are _ Gods, and they have decreed your suffering acceptable, worth the cost for whatever nebulous ends that they have… I would find little comfort in it.”

Noctis makes a non-committal noise, listening but not agreeing.

“That said… I don’t feel we’re alone in the universe… Perhaps it’s illogical, but something within me has always insisted that there is something. Something in the earth beneath us and the air around us, breathing. Living. Something that gives the world form and life.”

He scratches at the edge of the stain with a nail, then gives up.

“Then again, maybe it’s just a childish fantasy to think so…”

He’s not expecting it, but Noctis speaks, as though he can’t restrain himself.

“I think it’s real.”

“Mn?” Ignis looks at him, hoping for elaboration.

“I… yeah, it’s like you said. Hard to explain. Sounds weird if you try. But I’ve always felt...”

His hand tenses around air, as if grasping something. He trails off. Ignis responds in a gentle voice.

“Well, if it is weird, then the two of us can be weird together. Alright?”

Noctis smiles at him. “Yeah… Yeah, okay.”

He scoots over to Ignis and leans into him, nuzzling his cheek into Ignis’s shoulder. The television is still babbling in the background, meaningless noise drowned out by the quiet that rests between them. Ignis pulls him close, kisses him again, but with no urgency. There’s nothing that can intrude.

Noctis pulls back for a moment, looks up at Ignis with a flick of eyelashes.

“Uh… I was thinking… If you’re… If you’re gonna stay over, I’ll show you where the shower and stuff is.” There’s a slight blush dusting his cheeks, leaving no doubt as to what he means by “stay over”.

“Oh. Erm. Thank you. Lead the way.”

Ignis follows him on a quick tour down the hall, linen closet there, toilet on the left, and bedroom at the end, with the ensuite bathroom just inside. It’s probably a good idea for him to freshen up anyway. Noctis hands him a clean towel and washcloth that he collected from the closet.

“Just… use whatever shampoo and stuff you want. I don’t mind.”

Ignis nods and Noctis closes the door. The bathroom is far more spacious than seems necessary, with large unfrosted windows that would make him self-conscious if there were other buildings this far up. As it is, he’s surrounded by the starry night sky and the quiet sound of wind, the streets below muted. The rich really do live in another world, he muses, stripping off and setting his glasses on the counter. The glass fogs almost as soon as he turns on the hot water.

He intended to make this quick— there’s no need to wash his hair twice in one day, and he’s already eager for what follows, but he finds himself spacing out under the spray nevertheless, soap suds swirling around his feet. The temperature and pressure is perfect, unlike everywhere he’s ever lived. He blinks, runs his hands over his face, and switches off the water.

After drying himself with a sublimely fluffy towel, he slips back into his clothing, adjusting himself in front of the foggy mirror. Some strands of his hair are damp and falling over his face, he decides to leave them there. His shirt is slightly more unbuttoned than when he arrived. The glasses can stay on the counter, he decides.

Perhaps he’s just allowing himself to be flattered by the foggy glass and his own blurred vision, but he’s managed to convince himself he looks the part. The nervousness fluttering in his chest hopes Noctis agrees.

His hand twists the doorknob and he reemerges into the bedroom. Noctis is sitting on the bed. His eyes flick up and down, over Ignis’s mussed hair and artfully disarranged clothing. A small victory. He gives a slight smile as he rises and makes his own way into the shower.

Ignis waits for him. He sits on the bed, running his hands over the black duvet, embossed with some sort of fleur-de-lis pattern. The lights in the room are already down, it’s hard to tell. Stars peek through the gap in the curtains, melting streaks down the glass. At some point it must have begun to rain. The hiss of the shower and the rainfall outside settle into twin white noises, against the dark and the texture of the fabric under his fingertips. His nerves jangle to fill the silence.

Noctis re-emerges, hair still damp, a towel wrapped around his waist. He wears the night like a mantle over his bare skin, confident, even somehow predatory. He stalks to the bed that is his territory and plants his hands either side of Ignis, settling over his lap, The towel slips, parting over his thigh, unraveling up to the waist, and falls to the floor. Ignis takes in the view with dizzied awe, the expanse of exposed, delicate skin, the subtle outline of the muscles on his slim frame. He looks down too, of course, to where Noctis’s cock has settled in his lap, heavy and hardening, resting against the folds of his trousers, the tip bumping against his abdomen when Noctis shifts, shuffling closer.

Ignis’s hands reach up to greet him, a reverent hesitation in his fingers before they touch bare skin. He runs his hands down Noctis’s sides, gripping him by the hips. Noctis stretches his arms out, resting them on Ignis’s shoulders, hands entwining somewhere behind his head, and leans in for a kiss. It’s hot and eager, lips parted, a hint of mouthwash on his tongue. Ignis groans into Noctis’s mouth, and a hand entwines firmly in the hair at the back of his head. Noctis breaks the kiss not by pulling away, but by dragging Ignis’s head back, rushing into his exposed throat with hot, wet lips. Ignis grinds up, but only gently. Noctis is bare and the last thing he wants to do is catch him with the zipper of his trousers. He lets Noctis take charge of the speed and pressure, panting into his ear and digging fingertips into his waist. He finds himself with a dilemma— to get closer to Noctis, he has to remove his trousers, which requires separating himself from Noctis. To his lust-addled brain, it’s an impossible equation.

He’s saved by eager fingertips prying at the zipper, pulling him free, tugging down the elastic of his underwear, removing all barriers. The blessed fingertips give him a slow, firm stroke, and he twitches under them. Noctis makes a hungry noise against his mouth, and that’s when Ignis snaps, scoops him up in his arms, and flips them over, depositing Noctis on his back on the bed, climbing up on his hands and knees. Once there, he works his way back down Noctis’s body, searching with tongue and fingers for the places that make him shiver and moan, working his mouth down over Noctis’s abdomen, past his hipbone, hands jumping down to rake nails from his knees to inner thigh. He breaks contact for a moment, looks up to meet Noctis’s eyes, dark with lust as he cranes his neck to see, and he keeps looking into those eyes as he licks his cock from base to tip. Noctis flops his head back onto the bed, his hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets as Ignis works him with his hand and tongue. Then he swallows it down without warning. Noctis jerks like he’s been electrified, there’s the hiss of a curse word as Ignis bobs his head, hollows his cheeks to suck harder.

_ Everything you did for me last time. _ Ignis thinks. _ Everything you want. _

He doesn’t intend for Noctis to last, and Noctis doesn’t. Gasping, bucking hips, a sucking of air followed by a sharp cry. The hands in the sheets fall limp. His chest is heaving.

Ignis crawls up the bed to lie next to him, meeting his unfocused gaze with a smile. Noctis drags himself up on one elbow, throws an arm around Ignis’s neck, kisses him clumsily. Ignis wonders if he can taste himself. Noctis’s hand slips down to stroke him again. He groans into the kiss. He wants the hand on him, wants everything that Noctis is willing to give, but holds himself back from the edge, reaching down to still Noctis’s hand on him when it gets too much. They kiss again, slower, and Ignis takes charge, slowly rocking his hips, sliding his cock through Noctis’s grip, slick with precome, cautious, restrained. There’s something he wants more, but Noctis needs some time. He takes Noctis’s hand and raises it, kissing the inside of his wrist, then reaches up to brush his hair back behind his ear, exposing his flushed cheek. They rest next to each other on the bed, forehead to forehead, breathing quietly.

He reaches over and begins toying with Noctis again, gentle where it might be oversensitive, waiting for him to stir once more under his touch. Noctis reaches out, grazes fingertips along his cheekbone.

“Fuck me?”

“As you wish.” He presses their foreheads together, then rolls over and reaches for the dresser. It’s not hard to find the lubricant and condoms, to prepare himself, but it takes much longer than he would like to spend not touching Noctis. He returns with slicked-up fingers, reaching down between Noctis’s legs, enjoying the squirm of pleasure when he presses his fingertips against the hole, and traces circles around it. Then he lines himself up— Noctis’s legs hooked over his arms, Ignis’s hands around his thighs— and pushes forward.

His breath hitches, something catches inside his chest, intense, too intense. For a moment, he is still, engulfed, unaware. Noctis rocks up against him, impatient. The nip of teeth on his lip brings him back to reality and he remembers to move, slowly, dragging out, pressing back in, finding how their bodies fit together. Perfect, he thinks, as Noctis groans under him, as he picks up the pace, listening to the rising, breathy noises in his ear, feeling the rake of fingernails across his shoulders. Noctis reaches a hand down between them to touch himself. Ignis slows, pulling back from the edge that he’s far too close to, watches hazily as Noctis jerks himself, kisses his lips and neck and chest, runs hands up and down his sides. 

Noctis’s breathing catches in his throat and he gasps out, “Close. Come with me,” and Ignis moves, gives in to instinct, fast and hard and rough. Noctis is crying out with each thrust, expression contorted, body tensed, hand clenched around himself, quick, desperate strokes one after another until he spills across his own abdomen. “Ignis,” he gasps, and that’s all Ignis needs to follow him, burying his forehead in Noctis’s shoulder and groaning. He rests there for a moment, barely holding up his own weight.

Noctis reaches up and pets the back of his head with a curious fondness.

“Fuck, that was great.”

Ignis laughs into his shoulder, sweat plastering strands of hair against his forehead.

“Must say I agree,” he murmurs, when he can trust himself to speak again. He presses a hand to Noctis’s cheek, kisses him before pulling back, pulling out, disposing of the condom and taking a handful of tissues from the bedside table to clean off. He wipes up what he can of the mess on Noctis’s stomach before suggesting, “Shower again?”

Noctis brushes a hand down over his chest and grimaces, "Yeah."

They manage to get themselves cleaned off, though not without further distracting touches and slippery kisses. In the steam and warmth, Noctis’s eyes begin to close, and Ignis ushers him out and into a towel, then back into bed once they’re both dried off. He’s barely settled himself in when Noctis insistently nuzzles his head into Ignis’s shoulder, and falls asleep near instantaneously. Ignis stays awake for moments longer in the wide and dim room, admiring Noctis’s sleeping features, the fan of his eyelashes and the cling of hair to his cheek, until his own eyes refuse to stay open. His sleep is dreamless and empty, but the dreams await him the following night in his own bed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by novembercomes!  
> Twitter: [twitter.com/november_comes](twitter.com/november_comes)  
> Tumblr: [novembercomes.tumblr.com](novembercomes.tumblr.com)

The room is vast and chill as he enters, high-vaulted ceilings and tall windows doing nothing to keep out the night air. When he looks up, the roof is a labyrinth of cracks, pierced by dozens of gigantic blades. He shivers, and not from the cold. Each creak of stone and metal rings out in the empty space, and he wonders how much the fractured ceiling can take. The weight of the blades must be immense. They seem as though they could fall at any moment.

Still, he passes under them, as if there is nothing untoward about the scene, as if he walks this gauntlet every day and night and has become used to the danger. The air shudders with another metallic groan. When he reaches the dais before the throne, he looks up. It sits empty, the fabric pierced by a dozen more blades, human-sized. Something like a gigantic geode hangs above it, dull and murky blue, suspended by chains. There’s a loss that catches in the back of his throat, an unspoken grief, wordless, nameless. What he wanted to find isn’t here, but he has come nonetheless.

As he watches, bloodstains seep forth from the throne, first as dark spots against the velvet, then shining wet, trickling red rivulets down black stone and gold filigree. It pools on the floor and begins to drip down the twin staircases either side. Uneasy, he glances back, and sees the same bloody shimmer of his own footsteps, trailed from the bottom of his boots. He stills himself, swallows his fear, and bows before the throne.

* * *

They settle into a cautious rhythm. Not every day, but every second or third, Ignis will drop by Noctis's apartment after finishing work. Some days he cooks, others they order food from the stack of menus (Noctis always putting it on his tab, something which he apparently has with every single restaurant in the area). They wear their own grooves in the couch, Ignis with one arm around Noctis, Noctis with his head against Ignis's shoulder, or sometimes in his lap. The days spent at the office are mere punctuation, spent in the waiting room for his real life, which begins in the evenings and inevitably ends in bed. Surely this is happiness, or as close to it as humans can hope to attain.

But there is a part of Noctis that remains closed to him. In the morning, when he wakes and reluctantly untangles Noctis's limbs from his own, Noctis does not rise with him. He sometimes prepares an extra serving of breakfast, but whether it is eaten or goes cold and is disposed of, he doesn't know. He's never seen how Noctis begins his days, or when he begins them.

And sometimes in the early hours, he awakens in a half-cold bed, Noctis gone from his side. At first, Ignis had assumed he had simply risen to attend to physical needs, a glass of water, using the bathroom, but the more often it occurs the more it unsettles him that the bed is long cold, that Noctis never seems to return before Ignis drifts off again. Day and night, they drift just slightly out of synchronization, uniting only in the evenings they share. And even then, there is something, a touch here, a word there, that causes Noctis’s gaze to drift from him, causes his touch to withdraw and his voice to go quiet. There’s a depth to him that Ignis cannot fathom, no matter how he stirs the surface.

Is it loss? His lack of family could well account for fear of becoming too attached to a new person in his life. But Noctis talks about his parents with the fond sorrow of a healed grief, these are not the times that he shies away. There’s no pattern that Ignis can discern— in fact it’s often when things appear to be going well that Noctis breaks away for no apparent reason. It puzzles him and frustrates him and fascinates him all the same— perhaps he loves Noctis all the more for his inscrutability. Or is he simply fooling himself into believing that he will be the one to solve this conundrum, as if Noctis is a new challenge for him to embrace.

More than anything, he wants to fix it. His mother warned him long ago that things are for fixing, not people, and that nothing good can come of making people into things. But he’d never quite understood what was so bad about fixing a person. How could making something better be wrong?

The question had caught like a fishbone in his throat and nothing had been able to satisfy. Now, he begins to see. He checks off his list of things he can provide for Noctis, and finds that they are already present— he has a place to stay, finer than Ignis’s own apartment. Ignis can cook for him, but he eats well enough on his own, with the host of restaurants at his fingertips. The housekeeper comes every few weeks, though Ignis tidies now and then, Noctis will roll his eyes and tell him to leave it if he catches Ignis in the act, asserting that he won’t die if a stack of flyers remains on the table for a week. Physically, their relationship is wonderful, but he knows better than to think that it can sate a deeper hunger. And so he holds Nocts, stays close to him, listens to his words when he has them to share, and wonders, hopelessly, what more he can do.

The nights that he spends in his own bed pass slowly, wondering how Noctis is doing now. His apartment, which at first had given him a taste of freedom, now feels like a prison cell, keeping him from Noctis’s side. He rolls over in frustration. It’s absurd, unsolvable.

He doesn’t visit Noctis on the weekends, not without being invited. One of the rules they’d never made but nevertheless kept to like a promise. Ignis potters around his apartment all Saturday morning, doing his chores and cleaning things that hardly need to be cleaned, before he finds himself downstairs in the parking garage, hands on the steering wheel of his car, his last chance to stop himself. He pulls out of his parking space.

* * *

His nerve begins to fail him some time on the drive over, and by the time the elevator dings near the top floors and he’s walking the carpeted halls, he begins to wonder if this is a terrible mistake. Since Noctis came into his life, Ignis has been unable to keep his distance, a flame he’s determined to fly into. He tells himself, as he leans against the wall, that it matters too how Noctis feels, that even now being too bold might scare him away forever. He knocks on the apartment door and no one answers. Knowing he should leave it at that, he turns the doorknob anyway. It opens.

The apartment has become familiar to him, like a second home, yet as he enters during the day, shafts of light streaming through haphazardly-drawn curtains, he feels like an intruder. He greets the silence, and silence greets him in return. His feet carry him into the bedroom. At first he thinks it is empty too, black sheets strewn across the bed, but the pale skin of Noctis’s hand catches his eye.

Noctis lies curled in the sheets, seemingly immune to the bright sunlight that washes the color from everything.

“Noct, are you awake? It’s past noon.”

“I know.”

Ignis takes a seat on the rumpled sheets next to him, hands folded in his lap.

“Yeah, so, this isn’t unusual. You just haven’t seen it before.”

“Are you unwell?”

“You could say that.” Noctis’s laugh is hopeless. “I hid it… didn’t want you to see.”

“I want to see. I want you to ask me for help, if you need it.”

Noctis makes a choked sound. “You say that, but I don’t think you do. I can barely stand myself some days. Can’t expect anyone else to put up with it.”

Ignis pauses in confusion. “Why do you think I wouldn’t put up with it? I don’t— Are you in pain? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing. Nothing except my own stupid self. I got given  _ everything _ — don’t you see? Never struggled a day in my life. And still— Why am I like this? Why am I lying here feeling sorry for myself? Why can’t I just— fucking— stop?”

“Noct,” Ignis reaches out to stroke his hair. “I’m sorry. I’ve been oblivious. I never realized—”

“Because I hid it!” Noctis blurts, and his voice is half a yell, “Because I wanted you to stick around and you wouldn’t do that if— if you knew— if— “

“No,” Ignis breathes, pained. Noctis’s tensed shoulders slump, defeated.

“You’re a great guy, Ignis. Really great. So don’t be sorry for any of this. It’s all on me.”

“Still,” Ignis reaches for his hand, “Let me share that burden.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking. You can’t fix this.”

Ignis threads his fingers through Noctis’s and gives a squeeze. At length, Noctis squeezes back.

“And yet, I would rather be here then let you face this alone.”

Something that sounds like a sob comes from Noctis.

“Talk to me,” Ignis says. “I want to help.”

“I don’t know why. I can’t explain any of it. Just— I’m so tired, all the time. Or at least it feels like all the time. And what am I even doing? Working a part-time job, living in my dad’s apartment. Going nowhere.”

His fingers tug at the sheets.

“I don’t know what I wanna do with my life… but is this even about what I want? There’s so many people out there in worse situations. And… how do I deserve any of this if I don’t help them? But I feel like I don’t know how to help, where to start, whether I even want to or if I’m just a selfish person trying to pretend I’m not. A fake. Just using people to assuage my own guilt. It all makes me so tired. And then I end up doing fuck all about it.”

“I think,” says Ignis cautiously, “that you do want to help others. You’re even worried that in helping them, you are doing them a disservice. The truly selfish don’t think twice about using people.”

He starts rubbing small circles into Noctis’s back.

“But that’s beside the point. Your life  _ is _ about what you want. You are not expected to drown yourself for the sake of others.”

“You know,” Noct mumbles into the pillow. “Sometimes I think, I would if I could. If someone told me I could trade my life to fix everything— that would be right, wouldn’t it? Might even be easy. Figuring out how to live, that’s hard.”

“Indeed,” says Ignis.

He’ll ponder this, later, when he has the time. For now, he removes his shoes and climbs into bed beside Noctis, curling around him, tightening his embrace when Noctis trembles in response. He raises a hand, running it through Noctis’s hair, making circles with his fingertips on Noctis’s shoulder.  _ I am here, _ he tries to say, in all the ways that matter,  _ so please let me in. Let me help. _ And perhaps this is how he is permitted to help. His hands can neither break things nor fix them, merely touch.

After some time, Noctis shrugs him off.

“Let me up, I’d better get moving. Don’t want to waste the whole day if you’re here.”

* * *

While waiting for Noctis to emerge from the bathroom, Ignis wanders back to the living room. He looks at the papers strewn across the table. Junk mail, still crumpled from being shoved through the mail slot, receipts for bills paid by direct debit, a letter opened, with a business letterhead. Ignis looks at it more closely. It’s from a children’s hospital, the first few lines announcing a gala for major charitable donors, but the date has already passed. He wonders if Noctis ever intended to go.

He gently straightens the papers and puts them to one side, prying no further, then gathers the stained mugs and empty noodle cups in his arms and bears them to the kitchen. More dishes await him in the sink, and frankly the sink itself could use a cleaning. Traces of mold creep out from where the taps join the countertop. He turns the water on as hot as it will go and searches the cupboards for bleach.

He’s setting the last of the dishes aside and wiping down the sink when Noctis reemerges in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants, flopping onto the couch. Ignis joins him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better already,” says Noctis, a little too rehearsed. Ignis reaches out, putting an arm around his shoulders. Noctis rests a hand on his thigh and leans in for a kiss. Ignis obliges him, then pulls Noctis up onto his lap. Their kisses deepen, but after a moment, Noctis pulls away.

“Not right now.”

“Alright.”

There’s the closing off, the averted gaze.

“Wanna watch a movie?”

“If you do. Do you have one in mind?”

Noctis does, but it turns out to barely matter. Before the first act is over, he’s back in Ignis’s lap, kissing him while Ignis grinds up against him desperately, and by the time he pushes Noctis backward onto the couch, the movie has been long-forgotten by both of them. He wonders if he should do this, now, but he wants it, and when he pulls back the look in Noctis’s eyes is desperate.

“How do you want me?” His voice comes out low and thick.

“Ah, f-fuck… the stuff’s…in the bedroom.”

“I’ll go then.”

A hand seizes his wrist.

“Don’t.” There’s an order in that, his gaze is commanding. “You come here.”

With that, he leans himself against the armrest and ushers Ignis into scooting forward. Ignis isn’t even sure whose hands end up pulling down his trousers. Noctis’s hands tug on his hips, knead at his rear, pull him forward until those blessed lips are wrapped around his cock again. Noctis pulls back to speak.

“Can’t really move much… you’re going to have to…”

“Noct,” Ignis gasps, “I-I don’t want to hurt you.”

Noctis rests a hand on his inner thigh, slaps lightly. “I’ll let you know. Trust me.”

“Alright.” Ignis moves forward, lowering himself into Noctis’s mouth, slowly. He teases the head over Noctis’s lips, dips it in and out, until Noctis gets impatient and pulls him all the way in. His tongue is like fire, sweeping arcs and circles. Ignis gives himself over to instinct, rolls his hips, feels himself hit the roof of Noctis’s mouth, the back of his throat, feels Noctis taking it, sucking for him, moving for him. The fingertips move from his thighs to his hips and back, but always they are clawing, tugging, pleading for more. It doesn’t take long for Ignis to finish with a shout.

He pulls himself back, resting on his heels above Noctis’s chest, admiring the wet flush on his lips and around his mouth. But now isn’t the time to sit there in the fog of pleasure. He slides back, down Noctis’s body. He glances up to meet his heated gaze, see the nod of permission, then lowers his head to return the favor.

They finish watching the movie, less out of interest or following the plot than simply gazing at the screen in a pleasured stupor. As the credits roll, Noctis stretches and rises to his feet.

"Still got those bottles of wine, wanna try 'em?"

"Cheers," Ignis says. Noctis brings the bottle and corkscrew back to the couch, fumbling with them. Ignis reaches over, puts his hands on top of Noctis's, and with a final effort, the cork moves. Noctis departs again, this time returning with two wine glasses. They don't match, but it's more than Ignis expected him to own. He takes charge of pouring. The liquid shimmers candy red in the glass, clinging to the sides like syrup.

"Yeah, this is definitely better than the last one," Noctis says upon his first sip. Ignis swirls the glass before tasting. It only takes one mouthful for him to decide that he prefers this wine too, full-bodied with a berry-sweetness. The light that catches his glass draws his eyes to a gold-embossed logo, a fundraising event from the previous year. He takes another sip, savoring.

A glass later and they're chatting brightly about nonsense. Noctis regales him with anecdotes from his restaurant job, doing an impression of the boisterous head chef, who apparently communicated largely through arm movements. Ignis laughs so hard he inhales a sip of wine, feeling the burn all the way down into his chest as he coughs. Noctis thumps him on the back, then continues his impression, refilling their glasses with a dramatic flourish. He pauses, then says, "Let's get some food in here."

Their discussion over the stack of menus becomes slightly heated, Ignis advocating for something that would pair well with the fancy wine, but eventually he caves completely and allows Noctis to order pizza. Well, it's been a long time since he had it himself, and it's not so bad once in a while. And when it arrives, his nose assures him he made the right decision.

"Bon appetit," he murmurs to a slice of pepperoni.

He's finishing up the last slice of pizza when Noctis hauls out a video game system.

"Been a long time since I had a second player."

"I certainly hope you're not expecting me to be good at this," Ignis comments, but takes the controller offered. Noctis introduces him to the game and shows him the basics. It's a mixture of action and military strategy. The player chooses a King of Yore, and leads their armies in battle against a computer controlled horde of daemons, securing bases and outposts along the way. Ignis considers for a moment, but unsure what any of the attributes mean, chooses the Rogue simply because he likes her design. Noctis takes the Mystic, and the game begins. Ignis doesn't quite get most of the details, but button-mashing through the combat and following Noctis across the map seems to suffice. Even if Noctis does get a little impatient when he mixes up the directions. At least they're on the same side.

The boss encounter is tense, but Ignis figures out how to unleash his super just in time to stagger the boss, and allow Noctis to deal the final blow. A shared triumph, albeit a virtual one. They high five.

The second bottle of wine is opened, and drunk at a slightly more reasonable pace. At some point he drops out of the game and merely watches Noctis play through some more challenging missions, eyebrows furrowed and teeth gritted in concentration. Ignis learns to follow his progress on the minimap, the shifting colors showing the domain of each army, the icons marking captured bases and where bosses are lurking. He gives a round of applause when Noctis defeats an opponent with only a sliver of health remaining. Noctis sighs in relief.

With the boss defeated, images begin to unfold across the screen, as narration describes the aftermath of that battle. It’s a little more dramatized than the version in his school books, but Ignis knows the story.

“...the forces of the Chosen King reclaimed the Citadel, and the Usurper was vanquished from this world, along with the daemons. But the King of Light, too, passed with the Dawn…”

Ignis is startled when the cutscene abruptly jumps back to the main menu, but Noctis doesn’t flinch. He must have cancelled it himself.

“Seen it before,” he mutters, scrolling through the options.

“Not fond of the ending?” Ignis ventures.

“Nah. Well. It’s, uh, historically accurate, I guess. But a bit of a downer to end a game on.”

“I suppose so.”

“And there’s like, different paths and stuff depending on which character you’re playing, so you can win battles that were lost in real life and see how that changes the story. Sometimes. So I always wondered why they didn’t do that for the ending.”

Ignis ponders on it. “It’s one thing to rewrite ancient history. Another to change something more recent. Perhaps they felt it was disrespectful.”

“I mean, they made a hack-n-slash video game about it. Pretty sure that ship has sailed.”

Ignis makes a noise of not-quite-agreement, Noctis goes on.

“Who cares what really happened? It’s a game. You should be able to choose what to do.”

He can see Noctis’s point, but the pedant in him is still frustrated at this disregard for history. The things that have brought them to this point cannot be changed at a whim. They can only be understood, and learned from.  _ What-if _ s are enticing, but thinking on them for too long can leave one overwhelmed with a thousand regrets, a trap that grows deeper the cleverer one is. Despair that eats away at hope for the future.

But then, it is a game. A world created to explore hypotheticals. Limited only by the imagination and resources of the developers.

“Think I’m done for now,” Noctis says, shutting the game off and finishing the wine in his glass. “You wanna use the shower?”

* * *

The water in the shower runs over his neck and shoulders, warm and relaxing, and he closes his eyes for what he thinks is a moment. It’s enough for Noctis to slip in behind him. The small shower cubicle forces them into close proximity, simply breathing too deeply brushes skin against skin. Not that Noctis minds, apparently. He presses his cheek against Ignis’ back, between his shoulder blades, his hair sticking to the droplets of water, and folds his arms around Ignis’ waist. After a pause, his hands begin to wander, over Ignis’ stomach and chest, fingertips tracing his sides, then working their way up to his shoulders. Ignis melts into the touch, and a line of kisses make their way up his shoulder and to the nape of his neck. He dips his head under the spray, and Noctis reaches for the shampoo, working his scalp with soapy fingers. A protest catches in Ignis’ throat, he’s perfectly capable of washing his own hair, but having someone else do it is more pleasant than expected, though he has to quickly swipe a trickle of soap suds from his brow that is threatening to run into his eye. Behind him, Noctis kisses the back of his neck again, then makes a quiet gagging noise as though he got a mouthful of shampoo instead. Ignis stifles a laugh.

He rinses the last traces of soap off and turns, crowding Noctis up against the shower wall, tilting his jaw up and kissing him, before ushering him into the center of the shower to return the favor. He takes the shower head off the wall and holds it close to Noctis’s scalp while he rinses the shampoo. Noctis tilts his head back into Ignis’ hands, eyes shut like a resting cat, the image of trust. Neither of them have spoken, and there is no urge to.

It seems a fundamental unfairness of the world that such moments cannot last forever. Their skin will prune, the hot water will run out, once again the mundane will intrude on the magic. It’s foolish to want forever, but Ignis can always want more.

Noctis rests against him, heavy with sleepiness.

“Come on,” Ignis says, ushering him out of the shower and reaching for a towel. “Time for bed.”

Noctis rests against his shoulder, heavy, drifting. Ignis toys with his hair, watching the rise and fall of his chest with something like wonder. He’d never known it was possible to be so fascinated with another person, yet the simple flutter of Noctis’s eyelashes in the darkened room was more engrossing than any conversation.

The moment felt right. He found his voice, leaned into Noctis’s ear.

“I love you.”

Noctis doesn’t respond, and for a moment Ignis thinks that he might be asleep. But his hand clenches in Ignis’s shirt, and his face distorts as if he might cry. He doesn’t say it back. Ignis pulls him close, and Noctis buries his head in Ignis’s shoulder, trembling slightly.

_ Please, _ Ignis thinks, but the reply doesn’t come. The silence hurts, but he understands and endures. He won’t demand anything from Noctis, won’t use any force that might break this delicate thing between them. His hand reaches up to stroke Noctis’s shoulder blades, and pull him in closer, feel the rise and fall of his breathing. He dares not say it aloud again, but his thoughts are nothing but  _ I love you, I love you, I love you, _ until they have both fallen into the void of sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

The next time his dreamscape is empty, a world of unformed mist. The ground he stands on is covered by a thin layer of water, backed with deep grey silt, forming a mirror of the silver sky. The surface sits untouched by the breeze, not a raindrop falls to disturb it, and even his own footsteps cause only momentary ripples before the stillness consumes them. There is something primordial about this place, it feels as though all things could spring forth from it, and yet it would remain in its own dimension, unaltered.

_ When all things have lived and died and returned, I will be. _

And so he stands in waiting for the dream to form, within the billowing mist that steals all sense of time. No sun to tell the days, nor moon to tell the month, nor even stars to tell the years. A freeze frame of reality— nothing will move until someone, somewhere orders it to do so. In slow motion, the mist breathes in, gathering, and out, receding. 

At length, it darkens, and then a shadow forms, as though something solid has blocked the light. His legs move of their own accord, overcome by curiosity. Inch by inch, the shape grows as he approaches, towering and blocky. A pedestal, no, a throne. Black marble shattered and repaired, a web of gold soldering the cracks. It no longer sits empty.

Ignis starts at the sight of the man, who seems to have come from the mist itself. His head is surrounded by a painfully bright halo, one that Ignis can only look at for an eye-watering instant before reflex forces his eyes downward. He blinks away the sharp-edged shape that burns behind his eyelids— a crown of blades? His gaze instead lands on the man’s hands, wrapped around the hilt of a sword that pierces the stone at his feet. He holds himself with an assured majesty, a steadfast guardian of… this place. Whatever it may be.

He realizes with a jolt of fright that while he has been observing the first man, a second has appeared to watch  _ him. _ Or perhaps not, the man’s eyes are covered by a black blindfold. Still, Ignis has the unsettling impression that he’s being scrutinized. The second man turns, and the movement calls Ignis’s attention to the branched horns that grow backward from his head and fuse together, adorned with chains and dangling ornaments. In his cupped hands he holds a pale flame. Liquid silver tracks down his cheeks, though if the man is crying, he seems unaware of it. He waves his hands, and the flame in them winks out.

The way this man looks at him— or rather, doesn’t look at him— is calm, but disdainful. Clad in robes of black and gold, he moves with an elegance akin to gliding, making his way in front of the throne, and bowing his head in submission. Was he blinded by the radiance of his king? Or is the blindfold simply so that he can serve without pain? Gloves of thick leather cover his hands, and he reaches out with no fear of being cut by the shifting blades. Ignis squints, in the brightness he can just make out a lingering touch on the king’s cheek. Hands reach up in return to adjust the clinking jewelry attached to the retainer’s horns and hair. Caring and cared for. He wonders which is which.

At length, the king tears his gaze and touch from his retainer. With a gesture, the halo of swords breaks apart and recedes, each standing on end some distance behind him. He nods to Ignis, and Ignis steps closer. He summons into his hands the same pale flame that the other man had been holding, and when the flame flickers out, a blackened ring remains. His lips move.

_ Come. _

Ignis approaches him cautiously, stopping a few paces before to bow in a way he hopes is sufficient. The air around the man buzzes like the moment before a lightning strike, raw power. Ignis holds out his hands, and the ring drops into them. The horned man speaks.

“Give it to him, and he will remember.”

The metal is bitterly cold in Ignis’s hands, and the ring far heavier than it appears. The weight of something ill-defined presses down upon it. It fills him with dread.

“Heavy though the burden is, it might be shared.”

Ignis looks up at the horned man, tall and unmoving. His face is solemn and strict, though not unkind. But it seems he shares none of his gentleness with strangers, only his king.

“You must find it in your time… that which the Gods denied in ours.”

* * *

Ignis awakens to find the sheets tangled around his legs, a rare occurrence given that he tucks them in tightly each morning. After extracting himself from the bundled covers, he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees. A small, hard object stabs into his palm. He lifts his hand to see a ring of blackened silver, and pulls himself into a sitting position to inspect it.

Red marks have formed on his palm where the edges of the ring bit into it. The overall shape of the design is bulky, but the details are intricate. Set in the center is a pale gem, partially concealed by the dragon that clutches it. The ring is not simple or delicate, but weighty, like a history, like an oath.

He’s never seen anything like this before, and he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten owning it. The only jewelry in his possession is the silver skull necklace he was gifted by Noctis. Blinking the sleep away from his eyes, he tries to imagine how it could have made its way into his bed. Perhaps if someone had slipped it into his pocket, and he had later thrown the item of clothing onto the bed, the ring rolling free. But that simply pushes back the question of where it came from in the first place.

His face scrunches as he wipes the sleep from his eyes, and remembers that he had been dreaming. Someone had handed him a ring, and given him a purpose. He struggles to remember. If he inadvertently grabbed the ring while sleeping, his unconscious mind may have conjured up an explanation for the weight in his hand. But the remnants of the dream linger, even as he goes about his morning business, splashing water on his face as he leaves the washroom, pottering about the kitchen gathering ingredients for breakfast.

He thinks about it more mid-omelette, watching the shimmer of oil drops cooling on his plate. There had been a barren land, a throne, and a king. And a second man, with a sightless gaze and a voice like fire, entreating him.

Did that matter? It had all been a dream. The question is what to do with the ring. He can take it to lost property at work, though that seems unproductive given he has no idea when or where he acquired the object. It would be a shame to let it moulder in a box somewhere, or end up in the hands of someone who simply saw it and liked it. A pang of envy strikes him at the thought. The ring is too important to let go of. He wonders when he became so attached to this object that appeared out of nowhere. It isn’t as though he’s likely to wear it.

His fingers trace idly around the rim of his coffee cup as he puts together the scattered images that remain. When the bright swords shifted, assembling behind the throne as though standing guard, he had glimpsed the face of the king, and it hadn’t been a stranger.

Maybe it isn’t surprising. He’s heard that dreams tend to be populated with familiar faces, the brain filling in the details from the dreamer’s memories. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s dreamed of Noctis, though the circumstances are rather different. This time, his mind assigned Noctis the role of king, and in such a desolate realm. He considers the possibility that this reflects his worries— Noctis lives in luxury, but alone and troubled. And… He pauses to recollect what the other figure told him.

_ Give it to him, and he will remember. _

Remember what? The idea of gifting the ring to Noctis is appealing. The design, with the blackened silver dragon, seems like the sort of thing that would fit his tastes, and Ignis dearly wants to see him smile. That said, a gift of a ring has connotations. This early in a relationship, it might be coming on a bit strong.

He could claim that it was a coincidence, that he merely found the object and thought it suited Noctis, but that seems likely to invite questions he doesn’t have answers for. Questions that he would like answered himself. Which brings him back to the exact questions he woke up with.

He slips the ring into his shirt pocket as he leaves, strangely reluctant to leave it behind. Throughout his workday, he finds himself unable to put it out of his mind completely. The weight brushes against his chest each time he moves. During his lunch break, he sits the offending object on his desk as he finishes his coffee, observing it as if half suspecting that it will move, or light up, or dispense a genie when turned in his hand. Yet it remains solid, inanimate and unanswering. He soon returns it to his pocket, concerned that someone might decide to swipe it for its resale value. But even that feels insecure. He toys with the idea of putting it on, but it really isn’t his style, and might attract awkward questions besides.

And so it remains in his pocket, a fact which he feels compelled to check at every free moment. Again and again, he absently reaches up to pat his chest and confirm that it’s still with him. His nerves feel like a radio tuned to static and turned up just enough to be audible, an ever-present buzz. He jumps a foot when someone asks him where to find more copier toner. It’s ridiculous.

Perhaps he’d better give it to Noctis sooner rather than later. It seems that’s what the ring wants.

He shakes his head, pressing his palms to his forehead, then runs his hands backward through his hair. Of course the ring doesn’t want anything. It’s a bloody  _ ring. _

With renewed determination, he sets those thoughts aside, and with one last pat down of his shirt pocket, opens up his inbox once more.

* * *

He sleeps at Noctis’s that night, guiltily hiding the ring among his folded clothing. If Noctis asks, he can claim that the ring is his own, but Noctis won’t ask. It takes him long enough to pick up his own laundry. He climbs into bed, careful not to wake Noctis, taking him into his arms and falling into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next day is a day off. It’s mid-morning when he returns to collect the sheets and notices that the bed is abandoned, which is strange since he hasn’t seen Noctis yet. The curtain blows into the room and is then sucked out of the open glass door, behind it is the glimpse of a figure.

The ring weighs heavy in his pocket as he joins Noctis on the balcony, following his gaze as he looks out over the city. Ignis has been awake for several hours and two cups of coffee, by the sight of his rumpled shirt and sweatpants it seems that Noctis has only just risen. The day is bright, a stab to the eyeballs as he leaves the shade of Noctis’s apartment, where the curtains are almost always drawn.

“How did you sleep?”

“Engh.”

“That well?” Ignis teases, over his own concern. He wants Noctis well and safe and happy, not staring over the balcony into a sunny day as though there were endless gloom on the horizon.

If Ignis’s dreams are in any way related to reality, and the appearance of the ring suggests that they are, there’s something that Noctis would remember if given the ring. But what could it be? Noctis hasn’t mentioned any peculiar gaps or absences in his recollections. Ignis could pry further. Perhaps he will. But— 

What could Noctis have forgotten, and why? Ignis’s dreams are ominous and foreboding, they feel like the lead-up to a disaster, a dam creaking and spilling over. What, then could make Noctis feel better? He doubts that the memory in question is a happy childhood event, and even if it was… He knows that pains like the one Noctis is suffering are not so easily resolved. Even a happy memory may only serve to remind him that the people once there are now gone. And if the memory is unhappy, then what is the purpose? Paranormal or not, he refuses to add to Noctis’s hurt without a damn good reason.

His fingers brush the pocket containing the ring. For a moment he considers taking it out. Perhaps Noctis would recognize it, and tell him what it means. But there is the danger that he’d reach out to touch it, or insist on trying it on. It’s possible that even the sight of the ring will awaken something better left sleeping. Noctis rocks on his heels, leaning over the balcony railing, and Ignis squashes down the urge to pull him back and scold. Instead he moves to Noctis’s side and puts an arm around him, calming his restless movements. After several moments, Noctis leans into him, and Ignis remains as still as if a wild bird had come to perch on his hand. He wants something that will be frightened away the moment he tries to chase it, and so there is nothing to be done but remain still, no matter how his heart races.

The moment can’t be caught. Eventually Noctis shrugs off his arm and heads back inside. Ignis gives the city skyline one last glance before following.

He considers it more as he pads about the apartment, transferring clean laundry into the linen closet and wardrobe. He presumes that the ring is intended to bring them together, if it is intended for anything at all. Otherwise, the forces that be should have given it to Noctis directly, rather than involving him in all this. Of course, there is always the explanation in which he has dreamed the whole thing, and so any “meaning” in the dreams is his mind overanalyzing itself. He snorts a little at that, as he stacks folded towels onto the top shelf. That would be just like him.

He vaguely wishes that he kept a dream diary. Such a thing has never seemed useful before now, but he wishes that he could remember when he had each dream, and under what circumstances. Perhaps then he’d be able to analyze the real life situations that might have provoked them. He thinks back. The first one, just after he met Noctis. He had been driving through a desert. Had he been alone? No, someone important had been with him. He hadn’t turned to see their face.

Neither could he remember the face of the man in his dream of the ocean, though he recalls waking with the impression that it was Noctis. Noctis, that slipped away, that he watched drown. Fear of losing him, he supposed, manifested in a fantastical way. It was simple enough to explain.

What of the other dreams? He’d been alone, certain that danger was coming. Under a lightning storm. In a field of frozen flowers. A great hall, some kind of throne room, the ceiling about to fall. The memory coils tight in the chest. And there’s the catch, hooked somewhere behind his breastbone. If he’s meant to feel good about giving the ring to Noctis, the dreams have gone about it the wrong way. No bright future, just fear and loss. It’s the only feeling he can associate with the ring when he looks at it, the deep unease building in his gut.

He makes pasta for dinner, something simple and filling, incorporating some vegetables he wanted to use up, and hiding them under cheese to fit Noctis’s palette. Noctis grunts his thanks as Ignis sets the plate before him, twirling his fork in the pasta.

“—‘s good,” he mutters through a mouthful.

Ignis can taste the imperfections, the sauce came out a little sweeter than he intended, and the vegetables a little mushier. But he takes the compliment in stride.

“Perhaps I was a chef in a past life,” he says, cautiously dropping the topic into the conversation. Noctis snorts.

“Yeah, maybe. You sure can drone on about food.”

Ignis straightens himself indignantly, “I do not drone on… I… goodness, do I?”

Noctis grins at him, “Okay, tell me how you feel about pre-sliced cheese.”

Ignis can feel his nostrils flare, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“An abomination. That’s all that needs to be said.”

“Sure thing. Hey, maybe past-you died in some horrible cheese related incident. Crushed under a shipping container of Easy Slice. Tragic.”

“Very funny. Perhaps I was a chef and someone tried to make me eat one of those slices at gunpoint.” That gets a laugh from Noctis. “I died with dignity, of course.”

“Yeah, of course. Here lies Ignis, unmolested by fake cheese.” Noctis taps his fingers on the table. “What do you think?”

“About the epitaph, or the past life?”

“Past life, now that you mention it. You really think you were a chef?”

Ignis ponders, “That was a joke, of course. But I can’t say I haven’t thought about it, particularly as a child. One of my books related an old myth that all souls return to the Crystal, and are reborn as new life across Eos. A flow like an endless river, or maybe a heartbeat. I liked the idea.”

“Yeah,” says Noctis. “Wait, does that mean you could have been anything? Like a garula or a sabertusk? Or, I don’t know, a worm?”

“It wasn’t that specific on the details, honestly. But I’d rather not think I was a worm. Perhaps I was a librarian, or an archivist. Back when I used to think about these things…”

He had drifted off, allowing what may come to enter his mind. The only snippets he had gotten were the smell of old books, the creak of the spine of new ones, and above all things, the feeling of paper under his fingertips. Pen and the scent of ink, the motions of his wrist. But strangely, among these distant and dusty memories he had not recalled seeing books, or the words on the page.

Not that he paid it much mind. It was more likely that he was accessing a memory of his early childhood than a past life, there had been ample books in his household, and he had probably pulled them off the shelf at some point and touched them, unable to read, storing only the tactile memory. He had recalled nothing else, and eventually given up altogether.

Noctis notices he’s gone quiet.

“So you think you did something with books? I can see that.”

“I’ve always been a scholar, apparently.”

“I was gonna say nerd, but same difference.”

Ignis huffs over his glass of water.

“Alright, what were you, then?”

Noctis’s head jerks up. He seems to struggle with the words for a moment.

“You know, I feel like I was something… But it’s a feeling, nothing concrete. No images, or sounds, or words. Just a feeling. Something that’s always been there. Something I’ve never felt anywhere else.”

“That sounds like an odd experience,” Ignis says mildly.

“You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” The joke comes out with a nervous edge.

“Not at all. After all, I’ve always felt there was something special about you.” Noctis groans, but seems mollified.  “Would you want to remember, if you could?”

“Dunno, what about you?” It’s an obvious deflection, and the perfect opportunity to lead into the heart of what he wants to discuss.

“I think that I would. I suppose I’ve always been the curious type, if I found out for sure that I had a past life, I’d want to know about it. As long as it’s nothing terrible.”

“What if you couldn’t know if it was terrible or not until you remembered it?” Noctis asks, voice more serious than he’s trying to appear.

“Hm. I… suppose I’d take my chances, though I’d be hesitant.” Ignis takes a sip of his water, crunches a sliver of ice. “Assuming that we are reincarnated soon after our previous selves die… well, I wasn’t born during a war or anything. The chances are good that I lived long and died a peaceful death.”

“Peaceful, huh?,” says Noctis, then with faux-brightness, “I guess… it’d be interesting. At least.”

“You don’t seem so sure,” Ignis frowns.

“I… Maybe there’s stuff better left in the past, you know? Like, I wouldn’t want to find out that I was a murderer or a cheat or that my family all hated me, or something. Or that something awful happened to me, or the people I care about… And… I think that’s what scares me. Whatever happened, I can’t fix it. I can’t change it.”

He stops to suck in air, then continues.

“Or what, everything was great and I felt so much better then? I had an awesome past life with a ton of close friends and family? And I’m never going to see them again… no matter how important they were to me. That… It hurts to think about.”

“But, isn’t knowing important?” The question escapes Ignis, he’s leaning across the table.

“I mean… is it? Seems to me like it could fuck you up. If people were  _ meant _ to remember their past lives, they’d talk about it all the time, we’d have proof that it was a real thing and we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. So what, are we talking about a situation where there’s a genie in a magic ring offering me the choice? Nah. I don’t want something other people can’t have. I don’t want to be special. I don’t want to be the only one in the world to know. It’s just… lonely.”

Noctis pushes his plate aside, ignoring the last few bites, and stands up.

“We’re meant to let the past go. That’s what I’ve learned. You can’t try to hold onto things or then you just get hurt when you can’t keep them.”

“Noct…” The table between them tamps down Ignis’s urge to hold him.

“... Sorry. Didn’t mean to get so serious about it.” Noctis reaches back for his plate, turns toward the sink.

“Not at all. I wanted to hear your thoughts.”

“Well, you got em,” Noctis says wryly. He reaches for Ignis’s plate as he walks past, Ignis takes a moment to rest his hand over Noctis’s and squeeze it, then stretches up to kiss him on the cheek. Noctis lets out a quiet chuckle, before shaking off Ignis’s hand and taking the plate.

“You cooked. I’ll do the dishes.”

Ignis stays to help anyway.

* * *

He returns to his own apartment the following evening, the click of the door behind him the only sound. It feels emptier and smaller every time he returns here.

The ring is still in the pocket of the shirt he wore the previous day. He takes it out, sitting it on his bedside table, pointedly ignoring it as he does his chores for the evening, cooks dinner, eats alone. He only enters the bedroom again when it’s time to retire.

Perhaps Noctis is right. What good can there be in remembering a past life when it cannot be changed, when the loved ones that you remember are likely to be dead? But Ignis has always wanted the answers, the bitter truth that he’s sure is waiting under every apparent sweetness. It gives him a slightly sick sense of victory, to be able to point at life and say, “I knew it!” That’s his hesitancy with the good things, the reason behind his caution and planning, the reason he always has a fallback and an escape route. That’s the dread that fills his chest. Some day, it could all be taken away without warning.

He wants to know. He wants to know the answers himself and at his own risk and responsibility, not to push them onto Noctis. Whatever it is haunting his dreams, it can take its agenda up with him. And so he takes the ring in his own hand, rolling the cool metal between his fingers, feeling the corners of its form dig into the pad of his thumb, and slides it down over his knuckles, until it sits at the base of his finger.

Nothing happens. The ring is heavy and solid and slightly cooler than his body temperature and after all, just a ring. What was he expecting, a vision from the Gods, spoken in voices of fire? It all seems faintly ridiculous.

He removes the ring from his finger, and rubs the spot where it was, pensive. Tension that he didn’t realize he was carrying leaves him. He returns the ring to his bedside table, where it sits like any other lump of metal and stone, and goes to bed.


	9. Chapter 9

His dreams remain silent.

* * *

After work, he pulls out of the parking lot, but instead of heading home, or to Noctis’s apartment, he turns toward the outskirts of Insomnia. His destination is yet undecided, but he weaves his way through backstreets, industrial areas and suburbs, avoiding the clamor of the highway. He just wants to keep moving.

He does think, idly, of how much this roundabout journey is likely to cost him in fuel. Not that it’s a huge concern, his own expenses have decreased since he began staying at Noctis’s half the time. And Noctis would probably pay to fill up his car if asked. But he isn’t going to ask.

He keeps moving, because the only thing that he can’t stand right now is remaining still. The ring sits heavy in his pocket, over his heartbeat, mocking his indecisiveness. An unseen passenger in the back seat of his mind. He knows now that his worry isn’t just about the ring. It’s all of it.

Falling for someone like this. Being without a plan for the first time in years. Problems with no solutions, journeys with no destinations. He’s out of his element, and the realization makes him want to cut and run back to a safe, predictable existence. Back to the colorless life. His heart seizes at the thought.

He does wonder why. He wasn’t unhappy before he met Noctis. It would stand to reason that he should be fine, if in the future he ends up alone. It’s never been a problem before. It’s just that reason has nothing to do with it.

The sun is setting over the desert as he passes the old checkpoint, the wind still hot and dry, but stirring as the night air blows in. He feels the heat down his throat and in his lungs, and something in the sensation makes him want to sob. It’s only now, after all this running, that he realizes what he is feeling is fear. Of hurting, of being hurt. Of getting to the end of it all and choosing the wrong answer at last.

He turns down a dirt road toward one of the old havens, the dull stone dome just visible over the dusty ridges. The stone endures, it’s barely changed since the last time that he was here.

Before he can remember when, exactly, he was here before, the dirt road comes to an end. He parks there, and circles around to the trunk for his telescope. His sky charts and tools are still in a bag in his apartment, but he should be able to look around at least. Setting up the telescope and tripod serves as a distraction, for as long as it lasts. He makes sure to adjust every screw.

He looks up at the belt of the galaxy overhead, unchanged and unchanging. He leans on it like a pillar to hold him up, at least this will always be here. He peers through the telescope and adjusts the lenses, bringing the stars into sharp focus. The Draconian’s Blade hangs high in the sky, the arbiter of fate, blessed or doomed. The red star in the hilt flickers.

And that brings him back to Noctis. His dear Noctis. Someone he’s only known for a few months, and yet it seems like a lifetime. He wants to know him for lifetimes more. The realization is dizzying each time he has it. Nothing has ever felt like this.

Perhaps that in itself is a reason to hold on, an experience to be treasured precisely because it is rare. But that’s justification after the fact. Ignis is acutely aware that his mind is working to rationalize what his emotions have already decided.

And if it’s decided, he thinks, then what’s the use in justifying it? Better to decide how to move forward from here. He gulps down the cooling night air, calming himself. He’s going to stay with Noctis, supporting him whatever happens. The determination crystallizes inside of him, growing into something solid to lean on, feeding him strength.

So what are his options? Give the ring to Noctis, make him remember whatever he’s forgotten. Seal their fate, bind them together for the rest of their lives. Regardless of what Noctis would have wished. Or to let things fall as they may, slip through his fingers and fall apart. Lost forever, perhaps. If that is how things are meant to be.

He scans the skies above, wishing for a sign. A bitterness lingers on the back of his tongue. Why is the decision left to him? It’s one thing to determine your own fate, another to impose your will on others. But, he thinks uneasily, how can one determine one’s own path and not affect anyone else? Is it merely self-delusion that tempts him? The illusion of control, or the illusion of abdicating responsibility. For since he held the ring in his hands, he has been responsible for the decision. There is no outcome that he can guarantee he will not regret.

And the stars begin to fall. He thinks he might have imagined it, the first streak across the lense of his telescope, but then there is another. He backs away, jaw hanging slightly open, to behold the meteor shower. The meteor shower! He’d forgotten somehow. Always at this time of year, though he hasn’t planned a stargazing expedition in some months.

The stars fall and wink out, and each one of them is beautiful in its transience. The scientific part of his mind knows that they are mere pebbles, skimming the atmosphere and burning to dust in the process. Some other part of his mind, something small and primitive, stands in awe. His ancestors would have seen this as divine, a movement of the fabric of heaven itself. He’s not sure that they were wrong.

_ Stars above. _ They cannot tell him right from wrong, but he takes it as a sign nonetheless. The universe is vast and cyclical, it rights itself in its perturbations and comes around again. His life is a flash of light in the nothingness, no matter how he falls, it shines brightly.

There’s a strange optimism in releasing oneself not to fate, but to fortune. To step away from the grand plan and the forces that seek to guide him. He has no way of bending the world to his own will, but he will not be bent. He would rather strike out on his own, and succeed or fail on his own merits. Under the chill of the stars, he feels the warmth of hope curling in his chest. The universe is vast and dark, and that is how it allows the light to shine.

He holds the ring in his hand, recalling that he once thought it was weighty, like the core of a star. The dark, swirling metal might indeed have been forged from a meteorite. But here it glimmers no brighter than the trinket around his neck. The desert is as vast and silent as the stars above, and a single star is nothing. So small and insignificant, he could drop it into the sand and never see it again.

He almost feels sorry for it as he slides it back into his pocket. Laying back on the stone, he feels the residual heat of the day in his shoulders, still watching the stars above. At some point, he drifts off.

* * *

In the dream, the skies above are black and empty, a swirling, formless void. There are no stars to light the way. In the darkness, he hears the sounds of water and mud under each footfall, but cannot not see where he is heading, nor which way might be solid ground.

_ Noct, _ he thinks, suddenly desperate.  _ Noct, where are you? _

But there is no one to answer. Of course, he has come here alone.

His body is heavy and aching, a side-effect of sleeping on the rocks. The warmth of the stone haven is long forgotten, and he begins to shiver. It is not a quiet and comforting darkness, but rather too silent and drawn thin, like clear ice on a lake. Every rustle and shiver speaks of danger, a hidden foe. His senses are wound tight, as though he can force himself to perceive the invisible.

The sky still conceals all traces of light. He has rejected the stars and their fate, and perhaps they have abandoned him in return. No illumination, no guidance.

But the dawn will come. So he tells himself in each freezing moment, with each tremor of his body. He will not despair, because someone is waiting for him. No matter how long it may be.

She comes carried by a breath of air, and her feet seem not to touch the ground. Her clothing and hair is as black as the night, her outline bleeds into it. Two beasts flank her sides, guard dogs, the color of light and shadow. The pale one shies away. The dark one approaches him. Its snout bumps against his fingers, sniffing as if trying to recognize him.

The woman reaches out a hand, an invitation he can’t refuse. He takes it. Sickeningly, the world inverts, he falls through, he rises up into a different landscape. A stone cell, and the moon above. And a familiar face opposite him.

The king… the condemned man…  _ Noct… _ does not open his eyes. He seems to be deep in meditation, or some kind of trance. His hair is dusty and disheveled, dark fuzz sprouts from his cheeks, and age lines mark his eyes.

The moon calls Ignis’s gaze. A haze blocks the sky, with a single circle like a window punched for the light to shine through, feeble and dusty. Only on the king, in his cell. Noct breathes in, and the ring on his finger glows. His expression is solemn, regal. Then his brows knit.

“Ignis?” It comes out in a creaky rush of air, a voice rusty from disuse. His hands fidget, his face turns away as if trying to resist the urge to open his eyes. There’s effort, concentration in his expression, then it returns to impassivity.

“Ah… I see…” The voice is tinged with both sorrow and amusement. Ignis stays his hand where it has reached out. He can hear it in the voice, he isn’t the Ignis that this Noctis is looking for. He feels afraid of what might happen if he spoke, if the king opened his eyes to see.

“But… you made it all the way here. Somehow.” He shifts in his seat again. “That… means a lot.” Ragged fingernails dig into the worn fabric of his trousers.

“Listen. I’ve seen… I know what happened.” 

Ignis waits several quietened breaths for more of the hoarse, halting words, hoping this Noctis will remind him of those events. The waiting is in vain. Wind whistles through stone.

He shifts, eventually, and Noctis reacts to the sound with a small smile, sensitive to the smallest indications of another's presence.

“Don’t worry about me… I’m going to save the world for you, too.”

His smile is lopsided. Noctis Lucis Caelum, the 114th King of Lucis, the Chosen, the Dawnbringer,  _ the Last, _ sits forward on his throne of bare granite with a familiar restlessness. And for a moment, Ignis Scientia kneels before him.

The half-memories illuminate the corners of his mind, a rush of fleeting images that bewilder him, wordless phantasms. Ignis reaches up and presses one of his hands down over Noctis’s. The tears that fall on his shirt sleeves burn only for a moment, as the wind saps the heat. As much as he wants to commit this Noctis’s face to memory, his vision blurs.

He isn’t even sure that Noctis can feel him, or what he is in this place. This time it seems that he is the dream, merely visiting reality.

There’s an exhalation as Noctis retreats from his touch, if he ever felt it. His voice is stronger now, but carries the same bittersweet joy.

“Back to the Reflection.”

Ignis knows a dismissal when he hears one. He relaxes his posture just in time to fade from where he kneels.

* * *

A stone between his shoulders wakes him before the sun has risen. He rises stiffly, cold from sleeping on bare rock, with nothing between him and the elements. Foolish. He could have been robbed, or attacked by an animal, or slipped into hypothermia if the temperature dropped. As it is, he shoves his stiffened hands under his armpits to warm them. The thin shirt he wears is hardly adequate for the desert night.

He scans the horizon and finds the morning star has risen. Dawn will arrive in less than an hour, if his estimate is correct. He hastily packs away his telescope, struggling to loosen the screws with numb fingers. He checks his pocket for the ring as he steps into his car.

It’s warm from his body heat, and the sensation of it against his fingers brings back the dream. Him and the king, alone in the bare cell. He knows now what Noctis would remember if given the ring. Not that knowing makes it easy to believe. But he thinks of the face that stared back at him from textbooks and documentaries and museum exhibitions, courtesy of the many photos taken by one of the king’s traveling companions. Smiling, pensive, sleeping. His friends had taken pains to ensure that he was remembered as a person, first and foremost, though they could not entirely hold back the tide of mythologizing. He wonders why he didn’t think of it sooner. It isn’t Noctis’s face, but the resemblance is there, and the body language is spot on.

_ A tragic end, and far too young. _ He folds his arms across the steering wheel and rests his head on them. The figure in his dream had said that it was a burden that could be shared, but Ignis feels disinclined to share it. Noctis doesn’t feel that there’s anything to be gained from the knowledge of past lives, why must Ignis be the one to wound him?

_ You can’t fix the past, only mourn it. It’d be lonely if I was the only one who remembered. _ Why must the burden be carried at all? Why should it be upon them to fix a misfortune bestowed in another lifetime? Protective instinct curls in his chest, that feeling he has been misinterpreting as jealousy or possessiveness. Or perhaps it’s all of them at once. This Noctis is  _ his _ Noctis, and Ignis will keep him forever, if Noctis allows it. He will guard Noctis’s right to live on his own terms, to be only what he is naturally. The past needs to be no more than a story, a bad dream, and Ignis will comfort him each time he wakes. A thousand mornings and a thousand more. The stars will be nothing but distant lights, drowned by the dawn.

He thinks this as he drives, and the sky beyond the cliffs begins to pale with pre-dawn glow. The act of pulling into a parking space at Noctis’s apartment jerks him back to reality, he isn’t sure at what point he decided to come here rather than return home. Remaining in the driver’s seat, he takes a moment to consider the practicalities of entering at five-thirty in the morning when he isn’t expected. Sleepiness begins to weigh on him as he ponders the drive to his own apartment. What snaps him out of this reverie is the approach of a figure toward the driver’s side door.

“Noct?”

“I was out on the balcony. Saw you pull in.”

“Oh.” Ignis certainly didn’t think his vehicle was distinctive enough to be spotted from on high, but Noctis’s eyesight is better than his own. Either that, or he had been waiting for Ignis to return. Ignis steps out of the car and pulls him into a tight embrace. “Hnk,” says Noctis, but reaches up to thump him a few times between the shoulders, then lets his hand rest, sinking his face into Ignis’s shoulder. Soft hair brushes Ignis’s cheek, warm breath on his collarbone. This is the place that he has already decided is home.

“You wanna go up?” says Noctis after the hug has carried on a bit too long. It’s then that Ignis notices the chill still in the air, and the goosebumps forming on Noctis’s bare arms.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” he says. Noctis has already turned back toward the sliding doors. He follows obediently. Noctis’s bed is a miracle of warmth and softness after the haven, and they sink together, settled in each other’s embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is most of the reason I struggled to meet the deadline, almost everything after this was, in fact, written earlier. But figuring out what needed to happen here? [ENDLESS PTERODACTYL SCREAMING]
> 
> (I still have mixed feelings about bringing Past-Life Noct into this. The original plan was for Ignis to see some kind of metaphorical dream representation of his time in the Crystal and sacrifice, but I felt a lengthy bizzaro-dream sequence wasn't going to work and neither would beaming a literal recap of the ending into Ignis's head. So here we are.)


	10. Chapter 10

_Can you pick me up?_ says Noctis’s message.

Ignis taps through to unlock his phone as the raindrops slide down the windshield of his car, casting dots and streaks of shadow on the interior. He agreed to head to Noctis’s place after work again, but Noctis was working too. Well, volunteering. The place was within walking distance of his apartment, and he’d apparently gone in without thinking to take an umbrella.

 _Of course,_ replies Ignis.

Noctis’s next message contains a street address, and Ignis sets up his phone to read the directions aloud. A short time later, he’s pulling into a parking outside the Central Insomnia Animal Shelter, and the barking of dogs can be heard from within the brick building.

The rain has begun to pour, and Ignis retrieves his umbrella simply to walk across the parking lot. He enters the building, grey walls and grubby linoleum, and asks the woman at the front desk for Noctis.

“I think he’s just finishing up,” she says. “Sign in and I’ll show you through.”

Ignis thinks of protesting that he can wait perfectly well in the reception area, but signs the book thrust at him anyway. Perhaps the woman is hoping he’ll fall in love with something four-legged and furry and take it home. Unlikely. Pets are not part of his rental agreement, and he spends so much time at work or Noctis’s that it would be unfair to leave a creature unattended anyway. The hall that the woman leads him down is lined with rooms, or cages on either side, the outermost wall and door made of chicken wire. The insides are fairly spacious, full of toys, blankets, cushions and cat trees, as well as animals, mostly curled and asleep, the odd one crunching at a messy food bowl or lapping at water. One room is making impossibly high pitched noises, he peers in and sees at least a dozen kittens in every color possible. A few rooms further down, the woman reaches out and unlocks a door.

Ignis experiences a moment of confusion before his eyes make sense of what is in the room, a dark shape made up of various cushions and blankets, at least half a dozen black cats sprawled and curled across them, and in the center of it, Noctis.

“You can take a photo if you like,” says the woman in a stage whisper and with a grin.

Ignis pulls out his cell phone, but just as he snaps the picture, Noctis groans and flings an arm over his face. One of the cats stands and stalks away in a huff at the sudden movement, while another stretches and yawns. Noctis drags himself into a sitting position, retrieving a brush that has jammed into and left a red mark on his forearm. He looks around, as if still computing the time and place in which he has awoken.

“He’s a bit scruffy, but I’ll take him,” Ignis says to the woman.

“Oh yes, we found that one in the alley behind a dumpster,” says the woman in a stage-whisper. “But don’t worry, he’s had his flea treatments.”

“Shut up,” says Noctis, then yawns and stretches. He reaches over to scratch the nearest cat behind the ears, then rises, folding the blanket and gathering the cushions, stacking them back in the corner before leaving, carefully nudging one of the cats back when it tries to slip through the door. He turns to the woman.

“I was working on socializing Nyx. We played for a while but then he started hissing. Artemis is still scratching that ear, too. Might want to check it out.” The woman nods as if committing the information to memory. Noctis continues. “I cleaned the litter trays when I got here, refilled the water dishes, fed them at five. Ah, you know, it’s on the chart.”

“Thanks, you’re a great help.” The woman grins. “I’ll let you and your boyfriend go enjoy your evening then.” Ignis stiffens and Noctis gives an embarrassed chuckle, but doesn’t deny it. Instead he says, 

“Yeah, thanks. Have a good night.”

* * *

“Did you tell her we’re dating?” Ignis asks, in what he hopes is a casual way, as he opens the car door for Noctis and holds the umbrella above him.

Noctis waits until Ignis slides into the driver’s seat to respond.

“Uh, not exactly. But… I guess I must talk about you a lot…” He’s looking at Ignis with slight apprehension, as if he might have done something wrong. Ignis does feel a little exposed, but also a quiet thrill at the idea that Noctis, without even intending to, makes it obvious to the world that he’s _Ignis’s._

“I don’t mind if you do.” Ignis reassures. “After all… I was under that impression myself.”

“You mean, that we’re dating?”

“Yes.” He pulls out onto the road, and takes Noctis’s hand as he drives with the other.

“Good. Me too.” Noctis squeezes his hand. “Guess I’d better tell everyone about my awesome boyfriend then.”

Ignis reminds himself firmly not to turn and kiss Noctis while operating a vehicle. Instead he raises Noctis’s hand to his lips and kisses that. Noctis responds with a quick peck on the cheek, and Ignis wishes dearly that they were at his apartment already.

Fortunately, it isn’t far, and they pull into a guest parking spot a few minutes later. There’s a flurry of hands and kisses as they greet each other in ways that couldn’t be done at Noctis’s workplace, or while driving. Ignis pulls himself away and cracks the car door open.

There’s a box waiting inside the entrance to Noctis’s apartment, a greengrocer delivery that he’d accepted just before leaving for work. Ignis is relieved to find that he also remembered to set meat out to thaw, and gets started on a stew for dinner. Noctis disappears down the hall and returns in a different outfit, one that hasn’t been used for cleaning animal cages. It’s a band shirt that looks warm and soft and slightly too big for him, logo emblazoned in red, and a pair of black tracksuit pants. He runs a hand through his hair, still skewed from sleeping on the floor, and observes Ignis for a moment as he chops up a carrot.

“You know, you’re the only one who can get me to eat those,” Noctis comments.

“Oh? I didn’t realize you disliked them.” Ignis slides the pieces to one side and picks up the next carrot.

“Well, I’m not really a fan of any vegetables. My dad’s side of the family… cooking isn’t their strong suit. They just boil and salt everything. I threw so many fits at my grandma’s house as a kid cause I didn’t want to eat her mushy peas and carrots.”

Ignis chuckles.

“No, I’m serious. And, of course, my dad learned to cook from her… well, he tried for a while after mom died but eventually we just started ordering out most days. And he didn’t really stop me from eating the same thing all the time, so… For a while there there were about three plant-things I would eat.”

“Oh, and what prompted a change there?”

Noctis shrugs, “Dunno. Grew up a bit, maybe? Went out to eat with coworkers, had to try new things. Found some restaurants I liked… took some risks. People change.”

He makes his way into the kitchen, looks over Ignis’s shoulder.

“Still prefer meat though.”

Ignis slides the vegetables into a pot on the stove.

“Do you think changing your diet helped?”

“I dunno. A bit. Maybe? It’s still not great… well, it wasn’t until you came along.” Ignis hides the spark of triumph at that. Little by little, these things accumulate to shift the course of a person’s life.

“I kinda started volunteering for the same reason. Needed to get out more. Wanted to feel like I was helping. Didn’t want to deal with people.”

Ignis clicks his tongue sympathetically.

“Well, it certainly seems that the animals like you.”

“Oh, they get used to you pretty quick. Particularly once they realize you bring the food.”

Ignis stirs the pot, which is beginning to bubble.

“The way to the heart is through the stomach after all, then.”

“Hey, I like other things about you besides your cooking,” Noctis insists.

“Good to hear,” Ignis puts a hand on his hip and tilts his head, “What are they, may I ask?”

Noctis fumbles with his words, “Well, you’re, uh, hot. Tall. Good looking. You’ve got… kinda this serious face with the glasses and all, but, uh, it works for you. You’ve got, um, really striking eyes.” 

He straightens his back, meets Ignis’s gaze, “And you’re smart. You know lots of things and how to do stuff and it shows through in your voice whenever you talk about it, and I just want to listen to you teach me stuff all the time, even when I don’t actually want to do it. I like it when you show me things, when you pay attention to me. I like that you want to know things, that you ask about me. That you care. And, uh…”

Noctis seems to realize he’s talked for far longer than is characteristic of him, and his arms drop to his sides. He withdraws from seriousness, back into lighter, easier playfulness, “And you’re good in bed.”

Ignis turns down the heat on the stove, judges that it will be alright to let the pot simmer for now. He makes his way over to Noctis.

“You make it very easy to care about you.”

“Come on, you’re just saying that.”

“No, no, no,” He puts a finger under Noctis’s jaw, tilts his head up to look at him. “You’re a kind-hearted person, you really are, and you don’t even realize it because the kindness comes so naturally. Somehow, it’s like you haven’t realized how cruel the world is at all, and sometimes it’s like you have, and you’ve taken upon yourself the burden of paying back all of it, doubled.”

Noctis’s face shifts away in embarrassment, Ignis steers him back with a hand cupping his cheek. He must hear this.

“When I first met you, you spoke to me as a friend, just because we were in the same place at the same time. That openness takes courage, Noct, courage that I myself often lack, and I call that lack of it ‘being sensible’. But you, you simply explore the world, and if I can show you even a fragment of it, then I will be truly glad.”

Noctis settles against his chest, and Ignis wraps his arms around him.

“I don’t feel… I don’t feel like I’m enough.”

“Darling, no one ever does.”

“How can you know then? How do you know if you’ve made it? How do you know you’re not doing everything wrong?” The questions come in an indistinct voice.

Ignis strokes his hair and thinks of the meteors, falling untethered from the sky. Of an imprisoned king who promised him this chance at a future.

“Because we are here, now, together, and our choices have led us here. I’m sure I’ve made mistakes. But the path I chose can’t be wrong, if it leads me to being with you.”

Noctis rocks from side to side, holds on to him tighter, and Ignis swears to himself that he’ll spend this lifetime making it right.

“You don’t have to be more than this. You don’t have to have the answers for everything. You’re allowed to just be happy. To just be.”

Noctis’s fingers twine into his shirt, trembling, and the pot on the stove begins to boil over. “Bollocks,” Ignis says, and rushes back into the kitchen. He manages to avert disaster and calls out to Noctis.

“It should be ready soon. Would you like to put something on?”

“Yeah, sure.” Noctis starts to fumble with his collection of remotes for various devices, a system Ignis is still to learn the intricacies of. A familiar theme song starts, and then he pauses the video. Ignis loads up two bowls and carries them over to the sofa.

Noctis curls up with his bare feet on the sofa and the bowl in his lap, gazing at the screen. Even at this hour, he has a face that says he just woke up, lazily raising the spoon to his mouth, shirt and sweatpants rumpled. He’s gorgeous.

 _You lovestruck idiot,_ Ignis smiles to himself. At some point, the simplest gestures have become incontrovertibly fascinating, more than any charm or intrigue he could find in Noctis’s glamorous lifestyle, or mythical past. Now and then Ignis finds himself observing, taking in such things as the delicacy of his fingers, the softness of the skin, the neat curve of his fingernails. Fingernails! It’s an absurd thing to be intrigued by, but Ignis would happily spend all evening pondering the intricacies of his lover’s body, mapping out every mole and freckle and tiny white scar.

He only hopes that someday, Noctis will realize that he’s perfect just the way he is.

* * *

It’s a few more days before he returns, reluctantly, to sleep in his own apartment, and dust has begun to gather on the counter. Goodness, how long has it been since he cleaned, past the immediacy of dishes needing to be washed? Even his laundry gets bundled in with Noctis’s, in a single basket he takes downstairs all at once.

He wets a cloth and wipes down the countertop, scrubbing around the faucets. The floor probably needs vacuuming, but he doubts his neighbors will appreciate it at this hour. Tomorrow, then. It’s when he catches himself staring at the bookshelf and considering alphabetizing that he firmly tells himself to go to bed.

He removes his glasses and folds them carefully on the bedside table, running a hand through his hair and rubbing his tired eyes. His hands move to his temples. Suddenly, he’s not sure that he wants to do this tonight. If he calls Noctis, will the sound of his voice ward off the dreams for another evening? But instead he turns his phone to silent and faces it downward, so that even the light of the screen won’t distract him. He knows what he has to do.

He takes the ring from the bedside table and clenches it tightly in his hand, the edges digging into his palm. He ponders for a moment the best way to ensure that he falls asleep still holding it, first wrapping his other hand over the top, and then sliding the hand holding the ring up under his pillow next to the weight of his head, wedging it in place. He considers. It’s slightly awkward, but not too different from how he sometimes falls asleep on his side. Settling into the covers, he works on relaxing his body and slowing his breathing. It takes a while longer than usual, heart rate stubbornly refusing to slow, but eventually his consciousness drifts.

* * *

The mist is thicker than before, he cannot even see his feet or the ground below him. Anxious, he holds his hand up to view the ring nestled in his palm, turning it over to feel its solidity, its realness. Or unreallness. Relief surges at the discovery it has followed him here.

He stands, for a moment, in the swirling mist, wondering which way to go. He has the belated realization that he didn’t plan this far ahead, nor does he recall how he found the throne last time he was here. He squeezes his hand around the ring. _Take me there,_ he urges.

At first there is no response, but gradually the mist before him thins. He steps into the space that has opened, the silverish silt and thin layer of water visible underfoot, and again the mist parts, leading him further. He pushes forward slowly, as the path only clears at the pace it wants to. The sky overhead is an icy haze, the moon a dim and muted glow, fading like an ink wash into the clouds around it. It sits at the very peak of the celestial dome, fixed in place, and a circular halo is scored into the sky around it, the faint gradient of a grayed-out rainbow. He finds himself staring upward as he walks, at the gentle glow and the myriad refractions, the two dots that shadow the moon on either side, paraselenae. There is a serenity here, like the one found in an abandoned place, time frozen. Though he dislikes the cloudy nights that cover his beloved stars, he can’t deny that the sight is beautiful. 

The monolith of the throne appears out of the mist. It appears to be seated upon a slight rise. The moon above casts its shadows straight down, so that there seem to be no shadows at all. Everything appears to be one step left of reality.

The horned man, knelt at his king’s feet, turns and rises. His cloak sweeps around him, a great shadow illuminated with gold like a manuscript, embroidered like a tapestry. He stalks forward like a man prepared for a duel, and Ignis half expects him to draw a weapon. He does not wait for the man to reach him, he must show that he is here to take action, not merely to react. To speak as equals, rather than to accept the orders that he is given. He forces his own legs forward, with bravery he does not feel.

His eyes meet the blindfold, and see the slight raise of the brows above it.

“Why do you return here?”

“I want to speak with you.”

The man clicks his tongue, in the manner of one disappointed in an unruly child.

“You mistrust me. I suppose it is to be expected.”

He smiles in a way that Ignis suspects would not reach his eyes.

“But I am on your side. More than you could ever imagine.”

“Prove it, then.”

“From the moment you met him, you have felt an insatiable urge to remain by his side, to assist him with anything he needs. You love him like the night sky loves its stars. And yet, there is a part of him that has never been within your reach. You see that, and you fear it. That he will not love you as you love him. That he will slip beyond your reach forevermore. And so I have given you a gift.”

“A gift that you want me to pass on to him.”

“It is through stirring his memories that your own desires can be attained. This life is not the first time that you have met him, nor is it the first time that you have loved him. But it is the first time that the love between you can be fulfilled.”

“And it will not, unless I force him to remember?”

“I cannot say. You know him as he exists now better than I do. Does he love you? Enough that he will choose to remain with you?”

Ignis hesitates. He wants to say “Yes,” but his voice rasps, the fishbone ever caught in his throat. How can he deny aloud the worry that has plagued him since the very beginning?

“And that is why I am here. We will not leave this to chance, because nothing is chance. Abandoning your life to fate is merely rejection of your own will. We can set right what was once made wrong, we _shall_ set it right. Because that is our will.”

There is darkness and silence, and the mist swirls around them.

“It seems to me,” Ignis said, “that we misunderstand each other.”

The king parted his lips slightly, as if to say, _Oh?_

“What failure of understanding can there possibly be?” asked the horned man. “This is what you desire. I know your desires, for they are my own. He will remember you, know you, love you. As he did before.” 

Ignis hesitates, but continues to look at the black cloth where the horned man’s eyes should be. What lies behind the blindfold might be fire, or starlight, the harder he looks, the closer he comes to perceiving it. It terrifies him, but he mustn’t be swayed, mustn’t back down.

“Then,” he says with more strength than he feels, “you must know that our desires do not matter. Have never mattered. We live for him. Would have died for him, would die for him still. I will defend him from you, as I would defend him from anyone.”

The man steps forward, with a swiftness beyond what is natural, and the mist moves with him. His head tilts forward, and the horns that rise behind it only add to his height. The fire at the back of his eye-sockets gleams like a predator in the night.

“I let him go. I allowed that fate. This is my repentance.”

He looms toward Ignis, close enough to see the tension pulling along his jaw and neck, the quiet and blistering fury.

“You might be me, but only a facet. A child grown in a softer world. What do you know of pain and sacrifice? Return his memories and you will understand. We will take back what was lost. We will live again.”

Bronze fingernails dig into Ignis’s arm, above the hand that holds the ring. A touch that is both gentle and threatening pushes his hand closed, curling his fingers over the ring.

“It is not yours to refuse.”

“It is not mine to take.”

The hand clenches around his.

“If the memories belong to him, then why are you entrusting them to me? Why should the decision be mine to make? Is it because you cannot force him to take them? Is it because this is not his will either?”

The man grits his teeth, Ignis wrenches his arm free.

“I won’t be used by you. You may be our past, but you are not our future. We are not your vessels.”

“You deny yourself.”

“No. I make my own choice. Accepting the consequences…”

_...and never looking back._

Ignis looks to where the king has risen from his throne, and the shimmering blades trail behind him, fanned out like a pair of wings. His horned retainer stills himself, pulling back, head bowed. The air shimmers, there’s a flash of blue, and a third hand reaches between them, palm upward, the burn of a scar wrapped around the middle finger. Slowly, cautiously, Ignis presses the ring into that outstretched palm.

A bright flame leaps forth, and the ring vanishes.

The horned retainer turns his head toward the king, mouth hanging slightly open, his visible features the picture of surprise. Then he shakes his head.

“Your plan all along.”

It isn’t a question, and there’s more than a measure of fond exasperation in the words.

“Is this really alright?” Gentle, worried, words. “Being forgotten…”

_You are here._

“I am, always… but…” The retainer clears his throat, straightens his back. “Have you forgiven me?”

 _Forgiven what?_ The mist shivers, Ignis feels it might be a laugh.

“You never do change.” A smile teases at the blindfolded man’s lips. “Eternity, then?”

If there is a reply, Ignis doesn’t hear it. The world around him swirls and the ground underneath his feet returns to formless mist. He falls, his body struggles to right itself, and the last thing he sees before he judders awake in his own bed is the vault of heaven tearing open, a boundless sky of stars.

The room is dim, and when he fumbles for his phone, the light that indicates a notification is blinking. Ignis reaches for his glasses, presses his fingerprint to the sensor, and taps on the message.

_think i just had a dream about you_

_ur probably asleep but_

_woke up thinking about you_

_(Noctis is typing…)_

_(Noctis is typing…)_

_fuck just gonna say it_

_I love you_


	11. Epilogue

The edge of the orange sun touches the glimmering ocean, and he watches it begin to sink. Soon, the stars will come out, first the biggest and brightest, then the rest, down to the smallest pinpoints of light. Same as it ever was. He wonders if his past self looked up at the stars like this, and who might have been by his side as he did so. But even if the man in his dreams had been inclined to speak of such trivialities, Ignis had no way to ask him. The dreams had ended months ago.

At least this time, Ignis isn’t quite alone. It’s true that, soon after their arrival for their weekend in Galdin, Noctis had made for the pier and was fishing there even now (Ignis had soon retreated to the shade to sit with a coffee and watch him from afar). But now he was reeling in his line and gathering his things, heading back up the beach towards the restaurant and the hotel. His footprints form a line in the sand, but it is soon broken, lapped away by the ocean. The waters may be ancient, but they are never still.

A whole weekend. With the aid of Noctis’s credit card, he’d booked them into the most opulent room on the waterfront, with a king-sized bed. If he had his way, they wouldn’t be leaving it until Monday morning. Well, except to try all the food on offer. And perhaps to view the stars, he had heard that there was an optimal location a short shot into the hills, both for stargazing and the view out over the ocean to Angelgard, its twin cliffs poised like a bird taking flight. And he wouldn’t be surprised if Noctis insisted on sneaking back to the pier whenever he had a chance.

He sipped the last of his coffee as the waitress swung by his table, notepad in hand as if she were preparing to take his dinner order. But Ignis dug his hand into his pocket, feeling the smooth, round shape of the silver ring he’d bought, and surreptitiously passed it to her as he handed back the menu. She gave him a nod as she took it, indicating that she remembered his instructions.

“Two glasses of the finest champagne in the house, sir?”

“Thank you kindly.”

She’d no sooner departed than Noctis arrived, sun-kissed and a little sweaty, hair mussed by the salt wind. He brushed his hands on his trousers before taking the seat opposite Ignis, excitement in his eyes.

Ignis smiled back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time since I signed up to the Ignoct Big Bang with half of an idea and the hope that I'd get at least 10,000 words out of it... 36,000 words later and I can say it's been a journey. This piece challenged me on a number of levels- the slower pacing, slice-of-life, relationship building and the need to balance and entwine it with the supernatural plot elements and overall themes. I still feel that I didn't quite hit what I was aiming for, but it forced me to stretch my limits and my comfort zone, and there is a lot in the finished piece that I like.
> 
> Most reincarnation AUs tend to show the characters awakening their memories of their past life and joyously falling back into their previous roles and relationships, which fill in "something missing" for them. The idea of doing the opposite was at least partially inspired by ohmyfae's ["When the dawn comes"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14561787/chapters/33648180), in which Lux (a reincarnation of Noctis) fears losing his current identity to his past self.
> 
> Thanks again to novembercomes (artist), whythekwehnot (beta) and everyone on the Ignoct Big Bang discord who listened to my whining!


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